


Darling, Let Me Wreck You

by jackiefreckles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: #in this house we stan a Clurphy friendship, Clarke's a Disney Princess obviously, Delinquents, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Filipino Bellamy Blake, Hollywood AU, Pining, Yeah okay a lot of pining, canon character death, good things come to those who wait, too much drinking to be healthy, writer references every song she's ever liked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 73,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiefreckles/pseuds/jackiefreckles
Summary: "Don’t you know? We’re a scandal, Bellamy Blake. Disney Princess, Hollywood Bad Boy, rushing head over heels into an ill-advised relationship, against the wishes of our friends and family!”Or: A Hollywood fake dating AU that was partially inspired by paparazzi shots of Taylor Swift and Harry Styles, which is really embarrassing.
Relationships: Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Bryan/Nathan Miller, Echo/Roan (The 100), Eric Jackson/Nathan Miller, Jasper Jordan/Maya Vie, John Murphy/Raven Reyes, Josephine Lightbourne/Gabriel Santiago, Monty Green/Harper McIntyre, Octavia Blake/Lincoln
Comments: 194
Kudos: 247





	1. Laced With Brilliant Smiles and Shining Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I am in no way judging anything that Bellamy does during his lower moments, and the characters aren't judging him for anything, either. They're concerned about how these things are affecting his career. I'm not passing personal judgement on any of my characters when it comes to their sexual proclivities. We all know perfectly well that what celebrities do can heavily impact how they are perceived by the public, and whether or not they're approached for roles and cast in movies. 
> 
> Uh, but I don't actually know if a celebrity's publicist would be the one to approach the celeb about their bad behavior, and does anyone still read tabloids? Kinda made that shit up.

Bellamy’s fucked up again, and he can hear Raven’s voice in the living room, a low, frustrated tone. Harper’s arguing with her sweet voice, talking Raven down, and though he can’t make out the words he knows what Harper is saying:

“Give him time. It’s okay. Calm down.”

Their argument is basically a tradition, as constant as the tide. 

Harper sounds different today, though. Tired, resigned.

Sick of his bullshit.

They’re done with him, probably.

It’s shocking they lasted this long. 

Raven barrels into his bedroom like a freight train, kicking the bed fiercely, a command: 

“Get up. Put your clothes on. Two fucking minutes, Blake, or I swear I’ll make you regret it.” 

She’s not your prototype of a typical Hollywood publicist, all cell phones, sunglasses, and Starbucks, instead she’s a tough young woman in a leather jacket who rides motorcycles and takes no shit from any of the talent under her thumb. She peppers her sentences with liberal “fucks” but despite her jaded exterior, she always remembers Harper’s birthday, and she sat with Bellamy for hours on the anniversary of his mom’s death.

Raven’s the best in the business, all heart, no bullshit, and Bellamy’s got no idea why she puts up with him. 

He considers her almost a friend.

So he struggles into a pair of jeans and pulls himself into the kitchen, dark hair wild, ready for Raven to rip him a new one, even though he can’t quite remember why. 

Harper’s on the couch with her laptop, typing quickly, shoulders up, clearly pissed. Raven’s pacing the length of the glass doors that face the beach. There’s a half dozen tabloid rags on the table next to the green “recovery” smoothie that Harper brings him every morning, and he thinks:

_ What, exactly, was I doing last night? _

Raven turns to him, perfect chestnut ponytail swinging, and her face is in conflict; she’s furious, but there’s something sad in the corners of her mouth. She doesn’t sit next to him at the table, instead sweeps the rags towards him, stabs a finger at a picture he can’t absorb:

“How high were you, and on what? You just auditioned for what could be the movie of your career, you’re trying to be considered a serious actor, and then you go out and get obliterated and have a  _ gay threesome _ in  _ public _ and in front of the paparazzi? And AFTER you got into a fight with Justin _fucking_ Bieber at  _ Belle Fleur _ ?” 

“That guy’s an asshole.” 

Bellamy would be yelling, if his head didn’t hurt so much.

“His publicist chewed me out for an hour this morning. You’re not famous enough for this level of bullshit, Bellamy. You’re not established.”

She shoves a tabloid at him, and pulls up TMZ on her phone. The photos are up close. Close enough that he should have seen the reporters, and probably would have, if he hadn’t been fucked up ten ways to Sunday. Close enough that he is instantly recognizable, shirtless and skin to skin with a man pushed up against a wall, Bellamy’s fingers hooked around the other man’s belt, clearly fumbling to undo it, their faces only a scant inch apart. In the shadows another man is clearly part of the scene, Bellamy’s free fist curled up in his shirt. He barely remembers them, only the heat of bodies, a flash of green-blue eyes, the taste of nicotine. 

Bellamy groans and lays his head on the table. Raven is still towering over him, Harper throwing them worried, furtive glances. 

“We’ve had this conversation before. Your reputation is bigger than your career at this point. You’re not going to get jobs--no one’s going to want to chance it that you’ll be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“Raven, I’ve heard the speech.”

He wants to be mad at her, but only feels resigned. This is how it goes every time: he fucks up, she gives him The Speech, he promises to do better and he does, for a while, until the next fight, or the next designer drug, or the next girl with her skirt hiked up in a dirty bathroom. 

She slams her hand down on the table, snarls at him:

“Well, fucking hear it again, Blake, and let it sink in this time! You’re going to lose what you have! You’re talented, but at this rate you’re going to turn into a has-been, drugged-out, Hollywood wastoid! Is that what you want for yourself? It’s not what I want for you!”

His head snaps up, he’s furious, but her face is so close to his and he sees tears threatening in her eyes. From behind him, Harper says gently,

“It’s just that we’re worried about you, Bellamy.”

“Not you, too,” he complains, dropping his head into his hands. “What’s the solution, Raven? I’m not going to fucking rehab, so don’t bring that up again.”

Raven thumps into the seat next to him, and tries to sound even when she tells him:

“Bellamy, Kane’s involved. He considers you a personal investment, and he’s very concerned about your career.”

He wishes he could sink through the floor. Raven taps the table, hesitating.

“But...he had an idea?”

Raven rarely uses uptalk, but there’s a lilt to her words. Her voice is much too unsure. He cracks an eye at her, tries to read her facial expression. 

“Do you know his stepdaughter? Clarke Griffin?”

“I don’t tend to cross a ton of paths with Disney Princesses,” he mutters sourly, “but I do know exactly who she is.”

Clarke Griffin: former child star whose momager-type had a pill problem, stepdad in the business. Her mom’s incredibly public breakdown was the stuff of nightmares. Clarke’s starred in so many Disney shows and movies and teenybopper romcoms that he can’t keep them all straight, and she’s currently laying low to whispers that she wants to break out in an art film and is looking for the right one, and even more whispers that she probably can’t actually act at all, really, since Disney stars are all loud delivery and forced smiles. Good luck to her, in Bellamy’s opinion. It isn’t easy to parlay child stardom into something real. 

“She has an image problem, too. She wants to be perceived as adult and mature, distanced from her Disney days. And you want to be perceived as someone who can take life seriously, who will jump headfirst into exactly the right sorts of projects, and is better than just another…” here Raven rolls her eyes, “...vapid Hollywood B-lister.”

Raven cannot be suggesting what he thinks she’s suggesting.

“So Kane’s idea is...?”

“Fake long term relationship. You’ll appear to loosen her up, she’ll find her first real love. You’ll appear to be rehabbed by the love of a good woman. You’ll run with a different crowd. You’ll look softer, she’ll look harder. You’ll part ways after a year, year and a half, it’ll be bittersweet and you’ll both appear to have a heartbreak to draw on for your auditions. It’ll be fucking great.” 

Raven sketches her points in the air with a finger. Now that she’s gotten it out she seems much more sure of herself, which is infuriating.

“You’ve got to be shitting me. You want me to pretend to be in love with someone I don’t know for a year? I’m not doing it.”

“Oh, you’re fucking doing it,” Raven says, leaning closer, eyes narrowed. “It’s not a suggestion. And yes, you’re going to  _ pretend _ . You’re an actor, for Christ’s sake.”

“Raven, I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with here--”

“A spoiled drug addict who’s ruining his life--”

“Clarke’s nice!” Harper calls from her spot on the couch, interrupting them before things get too ugly. “Not LA nice. Actually nice.”

They both turn to her. Bellamy’s mouth snaps shut, Raven asks curiously:

“You know her?”

“Monty does.” Harper’s longtime boyfriend, Monty Green, is a talented scriptwriter and director. Bellamy’s sure that once people start actually seeing Monty’s movies, he’s going to be incredibly sought-after, but he’s not there yet. “Uh, he was really interested in her for a part in one of his movies--he practically wrote it for her--but she couldn’t take it because of contract stuff. She still came out to the house and gave him tons of character notes, and then she stayed for pizza. She’s super sweet, but very up-front about her opinions.”

“Monty contacted  _ Clarke fucking Griffin _ to be in one of his movies, and she responded?” Raven’s mouth is hanging wide open. 

“They have a mutual friend--he set them up.” Harper turns her focus to Bellamy. “You’ll like her. You’ll end up friends. It won’t be horrible.”

Bellamy wonders wildly if perhaps he actually took such an extensive range and amount of drugs last night that he’s imagining this entire goddamn conversation, and even imagining his own words when he asks,

“When do I meet her?”

Raven bites back a grin:

“You’re expected at a cookout at Kane’s in…” she glances at her watch, “an hour and a half.”

“You had a lot of fucking faith in yourself that you could talk me around in time to get me there.” Bellamy shoves back from the table, “Get out, Raven. I need a shower.”

She puts a hand on his chest, and her eyes are soft but she is tough as steel when she reminds him:

“Don’t fuck this up, Bellamy. People are losing patience. With you, and your sister, too.” 

Harper makes a small noise of alarm. Bellamy can’t blame her--Octavia’s become so terrifying she commands fear even when she’s not in the room. 

“I’ve talked to you about her before. You need to reach out and regain some control of the situation. She got arrested again last night. Harper bailed her out at 3AM when no one could get ahold of you. So, I’d say you probably owe Harper an apology and a raise, and your sister a good talking-to.  _ After _ you meet Clarke and make nice with Kane.” Raven’s half out the door as if she hasn’t just dropped a bomb on Bellamy’s chest. “Thanks for the assist, Harper.”


	2. Nothing But Porcelain Underneath Her Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me for the amount of exposition I had to shove in this chapter.

Bellamy knocks on Kane’s door with a hangover clawing at the back of his eyes, but at least he doesn’t actively smell like he drank a liquor store. He can barely think straight, brain half-focused on how much money he’ll have to shell out to the restaurant Octavia wrecked last night, half trying to remember every fact he ever knew about Clarke Griffin.

A teenage girl rips the door open and surveys him with unimpressed eyes: she’s skinny, with colt-like limbs and wide green eyes. Her straight ash-blonde hair is pulled back in a french braid and she’s still in a full riding costume. She reminds him of Octavia at fourteen, all legs and braces and sass. His heart clenches painfully again. 

“You smell like a horse,” he informs her.

“You smell like an ashtray,” she retorts. Then, “CLARKE! Bellamy Blake is here! I’m Charlotte,” she adds, beckoning him inside. “I think Clarke’s in the family room. Uh, that way,” she points, and then scampers up the stairs. 

The house is bright and modern, but there’s a hominess to the little touches. Family pictures line the wall next to Charlotte’s riding awards and a Teen Choice of Clarke’s. The stairs open into a giant room and there he spots Clarke curled up into the corner of a giant couch, phone in hand, frowning at a text.

The house is bright and modern, but there’s a hominess to the little touches. Family pictures line the wall next to Charlotte’s riding awards and a Teen Choice of Clarke’s. The stairs open into a giant room and there he spots Clarke curled up into the corner of a giant couch, phone in hand, frowning at a text. 

Bellamy saw her out once, at a Halloween party. She was moving through the crowd with John Murphy’s arm around her waist, dressed like an angel. It suited her, golden ringlets framing her face, the sheer chiffon dress clinging to every curve, but her eyes were glassy and her mouth was set in an unhappy line. She was nearly limp and Murphy was holding her up, speaking softly to her. Someone near Bellamy had whispered, 

“Is that Clarke Griffin?” 

And he’d turned in time to see her drift past, whispering something in Murphy’s ear, looking for all the world like the saddest woman alive. 

He clears his throat and she looks up, then jumps to her feet. She’s LA casual, leggings and an oversized sweater that falls off one shoulder, her white-blonde hair pulled up into a messy bun. She’s wearing trendy old-man glasses with large, perfectly round lenses. Her face is freshly scrubbed and free of makeup, and she gives him a shy half-smile:

“Hi, Bellamy.”

She’s  _ gorgeous _ .

“Hi.” He shuffles awkwardly. Her smile gets wider. 

“God, you’re even prettier in person,” She sweeps a glance up and down his figure, appraising. “You know, I was going to offer you water, but you look like you could use coffee.”

“Wow, that obvious?” He disregards the comment about his relative beauty, and follows her down the hall into a room full of shining stainless steel appliances, including a coffee maker that looks like it needs an engineer to operate properly. 

“Yeah, no offense, but you’re a bit of a mess. And anyway, the whole world knows you were out too late last night.” There’s no judgement, but a trace of amusement in her voice. 

“Nothing fun happens before 2AM,” Bellamy says. 

“Kane always tells Charlotte that nothing good happens after midnight.” Clarke pulls the fridge door open. “Do you take milk? Looks like there’s dairy or oat.”

“That sounds like something a dad would say. Hell, it sounds like something I told my little sister when she was a teenager. And black is fine.”

Bellamy thinks there is something oddly comforting about this little scene; Clarke bustling around the kitchen, Bellamy leaning against the counter, the scent of coffee percolating. Bellamy lets himself relax, just a little. Clarke hands him a mug that says, “World’s Best Dad’ and leads him back to the family room. She tucks herself back into the corner and gestures at him to sit near her, so he slouches and sips at his mug.

There is a small moment before he tells her, 

“I don’t really know how we’re supposed to start.”   
  


“Why don’t you tell me what you know about me? Or think you know about me?”

Bellamy moves uncomfortably in his seat. 

“Be brutal,” she’s got a bit of an evil glint in her eye, “I can take it.”

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “Okay. Clarke Griffin, Disney Channel Princess, daughter of Hollywood Heartthrob Jake Griffin and med school dropout Abby Wallace-Griffin. Abby was your manager from day one, got you into a cute movie when you were little, and Disney snatched you up. You did several shows and movies with them, had every little girl in the world idolizing you. Along the way your dad died in a car accident and your mom developed a pill problem; she had a very public breakdown and went into rehab when you were like, I dunno, maybe thirteen. You kept on keepin’ on for the Disney Channel, though, until your contract was up, at which point you went half into hiding. You want to do indie movies or some shit now, but you’re waiting for the right part to come along. Or so everyone says. Unfortunately for you, pretty girls with blond hair and blue eyes are a dime a dozen. Oh, and you dated that one guy. Can’t remember his name, total asshole. Felix? Francis?”

“Finn,” she corrects, in a bored voice that seems just a little practiced.

“OH, and last year there were rumors flying left and right that you were seeing Lexa Woods, but nothing was ever confirmed, and you haven’t been spotted together recently.”

Clarke’s face is composed, but there is a tightness around her eyes at the mention of Lexa.

“You  _ were _ dating her, weren’t you?” He nearly crows. “Shit, I win like twelve bets.”

She plucks at her sweater self consciously. 

“Lexa and I didn’t work out,” she says simply.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” he replies in a rush, feeling a little sorry for her. “It’s your turn.”

“Okay, remember that I had a lot more time to research you than you had to research me.”

“I didn’t have time to research you at all, but you were my sister’s favorite actress for ten years. That was just all the shit I remember from her blabbering added with everything people gossip about when your name comes up. I remember she and her friends had a terrible portmanteau for you and Finn. What was it --Flarke?”

Clarke nods, once, twice.

He wants to ask her a half-dozen questions about Lexa, but instead he prompts her: 

“Go ahead: what do you think you know about me?” 

She flashes him a sweet, brilliant smile, and Bellamy knows he’s in trouble. 

“Okay, Bellamy Blake, notorious bad boy: father, unknown. Mother, dead. Sister, trouble.” Bellamy winces. “Discovered by Kane himself at age eighteen when you happened to be at a party looking, you know, generally beautiful. You immediately got cast as the love interest in a bunch of stupid but successful romantic comedies, then took an unexpected, small, but well-received role as the villain in a superhero franchise that did...okay. Most recently you played a sensitive gay in-the-closet boyfriend, which made people pay more attention to you and talk about your talent, but! You also decided now’s a great time to work through some trauma and you’re starting to become more well known for things like drunken brawls and threesomes than you are for your own talent. Your sister, Octavia, isn’t helping at all; very recently you got into a fight with her boyfriend that ended with all three of you in jail. Said boyfriend is a Navy SEAL, and by the way I don’t know WHAT you were thinking, you’re lucky he didn’t rearrange your pretty face.” 

Bellamy frowns at her, but she doesn’t flinch. She sounds like she’s doing a report in history class.

“You used to be known for having a tight, unbreakable bond with your sister but in the past two years something seems to have come between you. She’s become famous for being famous, like a Kardashian, dating a string of completely unsuitable men, her current boyfriend is nine years older than her--and I think it was last month when she punched a reporter and then threw his camera down and stomped on it like an oversized child. Her temper is infamous. She causes a lot of problems for you, adding another layer to your already awful reputation.”

Bellamy wonders if his poker face is doing any good, or if Clarke knows she’s got her hand around his heart and is squeezing it like a vice. 

“Wow,” he says in a strangled voice, “you really did your research.”

“I don’t want us to start with lies or social niceties between us,” she twirls a loose strand of hair. “We have to be honest.” 

“ _ Honestly _ ,” Bellamy sneers a little, trying to cover his discomfort, “I don’t want to talk about my sister right now.”

“We can temporarily table the problem of Octavia Blake, full time hellion, but we’re going to come back to it.” She smooths down the front of her leggings, straightens her sweater, gives a sigh. “Listen,” she begins, voice tight, “For years I was trapped in a web of contracts and unable to live my life in the way I wanted to. I would never want to do that to someone else. So if you need it, I can go to Kane, I can help you craft your coming-out story and everything, you don’t have to pretend with me, I don’t want to be your--”

“Uh, no,” Bellamy sets the mug down with a little more force than intended. “I’m not gay, I don’t need a coming-out story, you won’t be my beard. I’m bi, and I’ve never pretended to be anything else. I just broke up with Echo Snow, the model?” 

Clarke rolls her eyes at him.

“Literally everyone knows that, Bellamy. But you wouldn’t be the first actor to date a model to make himself look like he prefers the company of women. And what happened last night has everyone talking.”

Bellamy sags back against the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Listen, Clarke, I don’t know if this is a great idea. I know everyone thinks I’m a selfish asshole, but I’m not a complete douche. You have a lot to lose, here. I could easily,  _ permanently _ fuck up your image instead of improving it.”

“You can let me decide about that,” her voice is clipped. “I’m a big girl. And listen, Bellamy, I think it’s important that we consider this as much a commitment as any other relationship. It won’t boost our images if you get caught “cheating” on me.”

_ Like Echo cheated on me,  _ Bellamy thinks.

_ Like I cheated on her. Turnabout is fair play.  _

“You don’t believe in  _ all publicity is good publicity _ ?”

“No, I don’t. And Bellamy, no offense, but I grew up in this life and you didn’t. I can run circles around you when it comes to dealing with the press. Occasionally having a fight will keep people interested in us, but you cheating will make us both look terrible--you’ll look like you manipulated and abused a younger, more vulnerable, less experienced woman, and I’ll look like I put up with that kind of shit--which is not the sort of thing I want to put out there to all the young girls who look up to me.”

“I keep forgetting you have an established fan base.”

“Yes, and they call me an ‘Unproblematic Queen’ -- I want to keep it that way.”

“Aren’t I going to make you seem problematic?”

She considers.

“I don’t think so. For all of your rebellion, you never say anything actively gross, and you don’t try to feel up waitresses or anything. Plus you’re biracial, come from a working class background, and are bisexal--all communities I’d like to reach and which need representation. Bringing interest and public attention to you will only make me look better. As long as you don’t decide to start doing or saying awful things, we’ll be okay.” 

She sounds like she's parroting someone else, and he can just imagine Kane sketching his points in the air just like Raven did.

“When would we go public?”

“Monty Green is having a viewing party tonight, we’re both invited, we could play a meet-cute.”

“Who would know we’re fake?”

Clarke taps a finger on her upper lip.

“The less people the better. Unfortunately, Harper and Monty will know, so then Jasper Jordan will know, too. If you want to tell your sister…? But I think that’s a bad idea. Her temper...if she got mad and wanted to burn you, she’d tell everyone in an instant.”

Bellamy nods at her. It makes sense. Every time anything important happens in his life,  he is tempted to call Octavia. He never does. She isn’t his safe place, anymore. Sometimes it feels like she’d do anything to hurt him, so no, he doesn’t want to tell her.

Clarke’s got a look on her face he hates, something akin to pity, like she knows his feelings about Octavia and she’s just waiting for him to burst into tears.

He grunts another question at her, irritated. 

“Monty’s viewing party is small-time. How’s anyone going to know or care that we’re there?”

A question with a question, she asks:

“Do you know who Gabriel Santiago is?”

Bellamy screws his eyebrows together.

“Name sounds familiar?”

“He’s a photographer. Super talented, but he’s still struggling to make it so he’s currently a reporter.” Clarke makes air quotes around “reporter.” “He and his girlfriend run a gossip site, augmented by Twitter and Instagram. They’re paparazzi, basically. Gabriel took the picture of you that was everywhere this morning. Anyway, I know the girlfriend, Josie. Anytime I need some good press, or I want to try and control the narrative, I tip her off. It’s like--you know the phrase, ‘get ahead of the story.’ --Josie’s been helping me do that for years.”

“That’s actually really smart.”

“Like I told you--I grew up in this business. It does seem a little suspect that you’d be at such a small event, though. We can say it was a favor for Harper, I guess? Your loved and valued assistant?

“There’s a better reason, but I’ve never told anyone before, so it would have to be part of the article.”

“You mean I’m already getting to hear a  _ bona fide  _ Bellamy Blake secret? And so early on.” Clarke teases. “C’mon, spill it.”

“So...uh,” Bellamy ruffles the hair at the back of his neck. “Thing is, I went to high school with those guys.” 

“Which guys?” Clarke leans forward, putting her chin on her hand.

“Harper, Monty, Jasper.”

A grin starts in the corners of Clarke’s mouth and she tries to cover it with a small cough, but instead she starts laughing--full belly, open throat. No delicacy about it.

“I’m sorry, the mental picture of you in high school with Jasper and Monty is too much for me.”

“Did you know Jasper used to wear goggles on his head no matter the occasion? Like every day, he’d just have goggles on.”

“I actually saw a picture! He wore them to prom! There’s a shot of Jasper in his goggles and Monty with emo hair, both in their tuxes--it’s Harper’s lockscreen.”

That sends a wave of guilt pulsing through his gut. He’s seen Harper nearly every day for years now, and he had no idea of the silly prom pic being her lockscreen. He tries not to think about it. Clarke barely knows them, but can pluck facts about his childhood friends out of the air. 

_ You’re a narcissist, Bellamy Blake.  _

_ Selfish, selfish.  _

“You know Nate Miller?”

_ My erstwhile best friend. _

Another wave of guilt.

“Not personally, but he manages  _ Troit _ , right? He’s been there when we’ve had bottle service a few times.” 

“He was in our class, too. He was one of my best friends when I was a kid.” 

“I don’t believe that you went to high school. You came out of the womb hot and surly six months before you starred in that surfing movie.”

“Oh, I can prove it.”

Bellamy pulls out his phone and begins rapidly flicking through albums. He’s got thousands of pictures from high school stored on his iCloud, but he hasn’t looked at them in years. Still, it doesn’t take him long to find an album he’d titled ‘Delinquents.’ He shows Clarke several shots of Nate in a beanie smoking a blunt, and Jasper and Monty making peace signs and duck lips at the camera. Harper, with her hair in a long side braid, smiles coyly over her shoulder at Bellamy as she balances on a fallen tree log.

“Oh, wow,” Clarke’s voice has a small catch. “Look how young they are.”

“You wound me!” Bellamy snatches the phone away. “We’re still young!”

“Ah, no.” Clarke gives him a skeptical look. “I’m still young. You’re fucking ancient.”

Bellamy clutches at his chest.

“Why didn’t anyone warn me how mean you are?”

It feels like it's been forever since anyone made him laugh. 


	3. Things are Getting Worse but I feel A Lot Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During which Bellamy is an idiot. Again. Some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if a celebrity could ever call in favors with a reporter like this but hell, it's my story, right? Not exactly going for nonfiction here.

They’re still laughing when Charlotte traipses in with a young man at her heels, announcing abruptly:

“Murphy’s here,” and then turning on her heel to flee. Bellamy’s pretty sure her face is red. 

Clarke practically jumps into Murphy’s arms with a squeal, then drags him closer to the couch. Bellamy stands to shake hands but as soon as he catches scent of Murphy’s cologne he realizes: this is the man whose green-blue eyes and slight nicotine taste he remembers. The third man. 

“What the fuck is this?” He turns on Clarke in an instant. Her eyes grow wide and she stammers--

“What? This is John Murphy, he’s my best friend, and, and, and--”

“Are you trying to get one over on me? Blackmail me? Or a stupid joke? It’s not fucking funny, Clarke--”

He stomps closer to her.

She ducks away as if he might hit her, and he feels sick to his stomach. 

“This is a coincidence, Blake, god, calm down. The world doesn’t revolve around you.” 

Last night, Murphy’s insouciance was charming. In the daylight, it makes Bellamy want to strangle him. 

Without looking at Clarke, Murphy runs his fingers along the inside of her arm until he finds her fingers, and squeezes her hand. He’s standing slightly in front of her, relaxed but body language clear: You’ll have to come through me. 

Bellamy finds Clarke’s eyes, blown open and wild, and he tells her urgently:

“I would never hurt you.”

She nods as if she believes him, but her face is ghostly pale.

“I mean it. Never.” 

Bellamy doesn’t want to push her, but wishes he could think of a way to show her he was just angry, and didn’t mean to scare her. Wishes he could say something to prove his reputation wrong, wishes he didn’t get so angry, so fast. 

Wishes he wasn’t acting exactly like his sister.

Clarke demands:

“What the hell is going on between you two?”

Bellamy demurs, and Murphy shrugs.

Clarke looks back and forth between the two men and after a second, realization dawns on her face, and she withdraws her hand from Murphy’s and smacks him on the shoulder.

“Murphy, do you have to sleep with EVERYONE you meet? Christ’s sake, he’s supposed to be my pretend boyfriend, and you’re out fucking him on camera the night before?”

“How was I supposed to know that your number one contender for Project Disney Princess Goes Darkside was Bellamy fucking Blake?” Murphy shrugs. “Also, who’m I to turn down Bellamy fucking Blake when propositioned?”

“What’ve I told you about the shadiness of consent while under the influence?” 

“Hey, I can consent,” Bellamy objects, “I consented just fine.”

“I bet you did,” Clarke mutters darkly, then -- “Anyway, Murphy’s my best friend, I guess.” She rolls her eyes.

“Hey!”

“And he’s a great judge of character. Probably because he’s a terrible person himself--”

“HEY!”

“So I thought he should come around and meet you. I had no idea you’d run into him last night.”

Bellamy squints at Murphy. 

“Holy shit,” Bellamy grins. “You were on that show with Clarke. That one about--oh God--princesses...ponies?”

“Princess Penelope of Pony Isle,” Murphy and Clarke chorus miserably. 

“My sister’s favorite show from ages 5 to 10. I saw so many episodes I could sing the theme song backwards and forwards.” 

“God, please don’t.” 

He hums the tune anyway. Clarke glares at him. 

“Can you not?” she demands. “I’ve been in dozens of shows and movies and I can never just escape fucking Princess Penelope.”

“You were such a cute kid,” Bellamy remembers. “Octavia wanted to be you. Literally. She used to beg me to dye her hair, no matter how many times I told her she was too young.”

“I’m still cute,” Clarke says snippily, “poor Murphy, here, though…”

“All downhill for me.” Murphy collapses onto the couch like it belongs to him, crossing his legs at the ankle. “Is Kane grilling for lunch or is Abby cooking her organic keto vegan bullshit?”

“Kane’s grilling, thank god. I want to run Bellamy through the gauntlet and everything but I absolutely refuse to eat any more tofu.”

“Okay, I’ll stay then.”

“Uh, sure? Last I checked you weren’t actually invited, but far be it from me to kick you to the curb when you’re hungry.”

Murphy huffs.

“Puh-lease, Clarke, I’ve had a standing invitation since I was eight.”

Bellamy is immediately jealous of their intimacy. He can’t remember when last he had a friend to banter with, or who would hold his hand when he was scared or sad, or who knew him well enough to have standing invitations or a little sister with a crush. His friendships were all superficial and he liked them that way, or at least he thought he did. No one to keep him accountable or say anything he didn’t want to hear. He even held Harper at a distance, and he’d known her since elementary school. She was hired because Bellamy knew he could trust her to keep his secrets. 

“Are we agreed that we’re going public tonight? I know it’s fast but I figure it’s the perfect kind of event. We have friends in common, we were invited to a small gathering, had time to talk, etc. Plus it’ll put Monty on the radar, and I really want that for him. He’s so talented.”

Bellamy stammers an agreement, but he doesn’t miss the way Murphy is examining him. Clarke is poking at her phone in seconds, 

“Josie! Hey!”

After a few pleasantries Clarke launches in.

“I saw Gabriel’s photo of Bellamy Blake. Absolutely gorgeous. Listen, about that favor I owe you? I just found out that Bellamy’s going to be at an event I’m attending tonight. Apparently we have friends in common. No, it’s nothing major, just a viewing party for Monty Green’s latest. I can arrange for you to get some pictures of us together--I’ll text you right as we’re leaving. No, listen, it turns out that Bellamy Blake and Monty Green actually went to high school together. Bellamy’s longtime assistant, Harper McIntyre? She went to that same school. Yeah, it’s all very incestuous. It turns out that Monty is thinking of casting Bellamy in one of his indie flicks, too.” Here Clarke drops him a wink. “Okay, yeah. Listen, have the article say something like: Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin were spotted together at an exclusive viewing party hosted by up-and-coming auteur Monty Green. Is that okay? Party starts at 8. We’re going separately but I’ll make sure we leave together. And Josie? No one else knows we’re going--this is exclusive to you.”

Bellamy lets out a small whistle as she hangs up. 

“That was impressive.”

“Clarke’s got a real talent for making it seem like she’s doing you a favor when really you’re doing exactly what she wants you to.” Murphy tells him drily. 

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” Clarke throws a pillow at Murphy.

“But it was! That’s some Slytherin shit, Clarke. I love it.”

“You only love it because you’re a Slytherin, too.”

“What house are you in, Blake?” Murphy’s eyes focus in on Bellamy.

“Uh, I think it was Gryffindor, but it doesn’t really fit.”

Murphy nods in the same instant that Clarke protests,

“Oh, I don’t know, I can see it.”

“You’re too nice,” Murphy comments, as Charlotte comes in to announce,

“Food’s ready.”

Bellamy spends half the meal staring at Abby Kane. 

Bellamy pities her, when he doesn’t often spare pity for anyone. 

Having your problems broadcast to the entire world simply because you have proximity to someone famous must be incredibly hard. 

She looks better than she did in the awful pictures taken when she was headed to rehab. Her face has filled in a bit, her hair cut shorter in a chin-length bob. She’s nice, though a bit reserved. She has a real smile for Murphy, who puts an arm around her shoulders and kisses her cheek, but she shakes Bellamy’s hand stiffly. 

“Nice to meet you, Bellamy. Welcome to our home.”

Abby tactfully asks no questions about the harebrained scheme they’ve cooked up or Bellamy’s recent ridiculous behavior, instead quizzes him about his family, his education, his past roles, and the one he most recently auditioned for. She asks if he owns or rents his home, what neighborhood he lives in, and what his favorite kind of food is. It only takes him an entire hour of 20 questions before he realizes she’s probably asking all of these things on Clarke’s behalf, trying to get the information so her daughter will know if they’re compatible. He leans in towards Clarke when Abby isn’t looking and whispers in her ear,

“You know you can ask me anything you want, right?”

Clarke blushes.

“It isn’t me. It’s her. She thinks I’m going to be miserable if we do this, because we don’t have anything in common.”

“Is she right? Are you going to be miserable?”

She turns to look him fully in his face, catching his eyes with hers. 

“That remains to be seen, but so far, I don’t think so. I’m willing to take a chance if you are.”

“I’m seventy percent sure that we have at least a few things in common, so yeah, I’m willing to take a chance.” 

“I’m ninety percent certain, and I’m basically always right about people.”

Her immediate faith in him is touching. 

Their faces are close, arms pressed together all the way down. Bellamy bites his lip to hide a smile before looking away to find Murphy staring at them, expression inscrutable. 

After dessert, Murphy makes his excuses, and he gestures at Bellamy to follow him out. 

Murphy leans against the wall, pauses a second before saying what’s on his mind. 

“I don’t give speeches,” he begins, “but I’m the only person in this entire damn house with Clarke’s best interest in mind. So here’s a warning that I’ll only give you once: treat her well. If you fuck this up for her, I’ll ruin you. I have friends and connections far beyond yours, and I’ll make your life miserable.”

“Murphy--”

“Hear me out. If you have any other intention aside from realizing that this is the best chance you’ve ever been given and taking this opportunity seriously--go in there and tell her that you don’t want to play this game and it was lovely to meet her.” 

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Bellamy protests. “I’m doing this for both of us, and if I fuck it up for her, I’m fucking it up for me, too.”

“That doesn’t convince me. I used to be just like you, and I know you’re exactly self destructive enough to fuck it up for yourself. So think about her, and what’s best for her. She’s a good person. Like a legitimately good person. She’ll do her best for you. Just give her the same courtesy.”

“I will.”

“I’ll see you tonight at Monty’s, then.”

“You know Monty?”

Murphy looks puzzled.

“Yeah? I’m the one who hooked him up with Clarke in the first place. When they’re both famous for their artsy bullshit, they’ll thank me.” Murphy pushes himself off the wall, heads to a car so expensive even Bellamy finds it vulgar. 

“Wait, Murphy?” Bellamy tries to find words, wants to make sure he doesn’t sound as depressed and pathetic as he feels--as he’s felt for years. “When did you stop being like me?”

The younger man’s face is full of emotion for a moment, but it’s gone in a flash. 

“I was supposed to be looking out for someone, but I was too caught up in my own bullshit. That person got hurt. And I couldn’t just keep on the way things were, knowing I was responsible for that. I’m not in any way perfect and I don’t intend to be, but I realized that if I was going down I’d be taking people with me. I’d be taking Clarke with me.”

“She means a lot to you.” It seems like the stupidest thing Bellamy’s ever said, a statement of the obvious on a grand scale. 

“Your sister’s a hell of a lot of trouble, but you love her, right? You’d do anything for her?”

Bellamy nods. His throat hurts, he thinks he might hate Murphy a little. A good judge of character, Clarke had said, and Murphy makes him feel exposed on a level that’s raw and painful. 

“That’s how I feel about Clarke. Just remember that--remember someone loves her that much. Remember how you feel when one of your sister’s worthless boyfriends does something that makes you wish you owned a gun. I would happily murder you for hurting Clarke.”

Clarke gives Bellamy a bright smile when he returns. She’s back in her spot on the couch, legs curled underneath her, and for a moment he convinces himself that he’ll tell her no, regardless of the consequences. But she jumps to her feet and says, 

“We should wrap up, I’ve got to get back to my place in time to get ready. I just talked to Monty and they’re all on board with pretending we’ve never met.” She peers closely at him. “You look like you’re going to barf--what the hell did Murphy say to you?”

“He just threatened my life if this goes badly for you in any way.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. 

“He worries too much. I can take care of myself.”

“That sounds like an exaggeration.”

“How about we consider tonight a trial run? If it goes well, we’ll move forward. If it’s terrible and we have no chemistry and our friends think it’s awful, then we’ll just...let Josie get her pictures but we’ll only be acquaintances, with a rumor swirling that we had a one-night stand.” 

“Clarke…”

“Don’t Clarke me. We’re not on that level yet.”

There is a stubborn set to her chin, and he knows he won’t win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I cannot ever resist including a Clurphy BROTP, and I was thrilled that the setup for this story had room to give them a friendship that's lasted their entire lives.


	4. I've Seen this Film Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy doesn't know how to conduct any semblance of a normal relationship with anyone, ever.

Bellamy heads back to his condo with a fistful of paperwork--airtight NDAs. The amount of time he spends staring in the mirror trying to decide what to wear is positively embarrassing; he finally decides on a charcoal gray sweater and dark wash jeans. His hair is a disgrace; he tries desperately to tame the curls but nothing works, so he huffs into a chair, googles Clarke for the thirteenth time, and wonders if his acting talents are up to pretending he’s never met her before when he’s fresh from meeting not just her, but her entire family and one very, very overprotective friend. 

Google Images offers him a multitude of snaps of Clarke, but the most intriguing ones include Lexa. Bellamy knows Lexa in a thirdhand sort of way--she’s an intense young woman with amber eyes, frenemies with his ex-girlfriend Echo. Lexa’s famous for being ridiculously difficult to work with, but she’s also considered one of the most talented actresses of her generation. Lexa and Clarke were photographed together nearly constantly for the better part of a year, but as the pictures grow more recent there is a tension in Clarke’s body language. In some pictures she looks like she’s just pulled her arm away. Six months ago they were spotted fighting outside of Troit, and no one has seen them together since. Bellamy figured it was the common tale: Lexa is out, and Clarke wasn’t ready. 

He pulls away from the photos and tries to compose another text to Octavia. He left her a message on his way to Kane’s, but she never called back. Nothing new there.

It’s a struggle to know the right tone to take when he deals with his sister. He was basically her parent until she was fifteen, his mother was first neglectful, and then sick. When he got his first paycheck he sent Octavia to an exclusive private school, but the friends she made there were, as Clarke put it, full time hellions. The wilder Octavia became, the less he knew how to deal with her, and throwing money at the problem made it worse, not better. Now his baby sister is an Instagram influencer, part time model, rolls the LA party scene nightly, and is generally trouble with a capital T. And she’s angry with him, so angry about their mom’s death, and he doesn’t know what to do about it or how to change it. When they talk he drowns in her emotions, up to his neck in darkness, and he would die to change something, anything, everything, but he doesn’t know what she wants from him, and he can’t redo the past.

BB: O--call me. Let’s catch up.

Sounds generic.

BB: O--we need to talk about what happened last night. 

Sounds too parental.

BB: O--I miss you. Call me. Please?

Bellamy’s not above begging. He sends the last, splashes on some cologne, and heads out the door. 

Monty and Jasper have rented out a small, old-timey theater in a slightly decrepit neighborhood Bellamy’s never even heard of. He spends a minute worrying over his Rover being stolen before he heads inside. He’s twenty minutes late but as he expected, Jasper, Monty, and Harper are all rushing around trying to finish up last-minute details. Clarke is leaning over the concessions counter, laughing, and as he walks towards her Harper intercepts him, calling his name, chirping:

“Bellamy, oh my gosh, come meet Clarke,” without a false note in her voice--Bellamy thinks she could have been an actress. She drags him over, and Clarke turns to face him and he feels his jaw drop a bit. She’s wearing a white tee shirt with a dangerously low v-neck, french tucked into a short leather skirt, with black ankle boots. Her hair is down and cut into an angled bob, falling over one eye. Her lipstick is red and flawless. She gives him a smile that could break his heart, and says, 

“Oh, any friend of Monty’s…” as she offers him a cheek to kiss. He puts his lips near her ear to tell her,

“You look amazing.”

And she teases him,

“Don’t fall in love with me now, Bellamy Blake. That’s not part of the plan.” 

Her voice is pitched just low enough to send a thrill through his body. He smirks back at her as if her words have no effect, and she tilts back towards the counter, informing him:

“Jasper’s trying to figure out the popcorn machine.”

“I’m not trying! I am figuring out the popcorn machine! And when I’m done I’m going to kick Bellamy’s ass for not coming to any of the other viewing parties we’ve invited him to. Who the fuck does he think he is?” 

Jasper is laying on the disgusting floor, penlight in one hand, wires in the other. 

“I’m Bellamy fucking Blake.”

“Nah. You’re just another Arkadia asshole like the rest of us. Well, except Clarke. Clarke’s actually someone.” Jasper shines the penlight at Clarke’s face. “You should start introducing yourself as Clarke fucking Griffin.” 

“Mm. I’ll take that under consideration,” Clarke jumps up to sit on the counter, kicking her legs like a child. “Bellamy, I just heard that Nathan Miller is coming.”

Harper gives a snort-laugh. 

“You can call him Nate, or Miller, but never, ever Nathan.”

Bellamy hasn’t seen Miller in months, and outside of Troit they haven’t seen each other in years. No one but this crowd would know that they’d been practically inseparable as kids. He didn’t know that this event was going to turn into some kind of class reunion--probably wouldn’t have agreed to this “meet-cute” bullshit if he’d realized it. 

It’s too late now, though, and he accepts a warm hug from Jasper after the popcorn machine starts humming, and meets Jasper’s girlfriend Maya, an artist in a shapeless dress who immediately falls into conversation with Clarke about a local museum’s latest exhibit. Murphy turns up in scuffed converse and ripped jeans, looking like he’s headed to mow the grass instead of watching a movie he personally invested money in. Monty appears from the projection room, straightening a dorky tie, kissing Harper like he hasn’t seen her in six months instead of six minutes. Miller brings his boyfriend, Bryan, and seems genuinely happy to see Bellamy. Other people trickle in, friends of Monty and Jasper’s he’s never met before, and Roma Bragg from Arkadia. She still hasn’t forgiven him for dumping her halfway through senior year despite the fact that he got cast in a major movie, and despite the fact that it happened twelve years ago. At some point Harper told him that Roma is a special effects makeup artist, and when he did the superhero movies he prayed to high heaven she wouldn’t be working on them, too. Her mouth twists when he says hello, and she obviously clocks how close he’s standing to Clarke. 

By nine there are dozens of people there, and Monty gives a nerdy little speech and thanks all the people who worked on the film by name, and the lights go out. Bellamy’s seen several of Monty’s movies, though he watched them in his condo, on DVDs Harper brought over. It’s a different experience in the dark, with other viewers gasping and laughing at exactly the right moment, and Clarke’s arm linked through his on the armrest. She crosses her legs and tucks one foot under his knee. She’s warm and solid and her laugh is the prettiest thing he’s ever heard, her perfume light and floral, he doesn’t know if he’s pretending to be attracted to her or if he actually is. 

Yeah, he probably actually is attracted to Clarke fucking Griffin, and that’s more than a little complicated.

Damn it. 

She keeps whispering into his ear, little comments about the characters or the writing or the camera shots. When the final scene ends he turns his head just in time to see her brush a tear away. 

“He’s so talented.” There’s a note of pride in her voice, and he remembers that she gave Monty character and script notes. “I know that I hardly count as an expert, but holy shit. That was so good.” 

Clarke and Bellamy line up with everyone else to clap Monty on the shoulder and praise Jasper’s techie skills. Harper pops open champagne. Bellamy puts his arm around Clarke’s waist. Jasper winks at him and snaps a picture with his phone. It’s nearing 2AM when Clarke asks, 

“Did you drive?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna take me home?”

There is something, if not suggestive, at least teasing in her tone. 

She slips her hand inside his and they make their way through the crowd, pushing open the door into slightly cool night air. Bellamy pulls Clarke along, and she walks quickly to keep up with him. He is hyper aware of the camera but looks studiously away, just as he normally would. He slides an arm around Clarke’s shoulders again, opening the passenger side door and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before she climbs in. 

The temptation to kiss her is there, but he reminds himself that it’s too early. 

Right?

It’s too early. 

She grins exultantly at him when he closes his door. 

“That was perfect. I think Gabriel got some good shots, and Monty’s friend Bree was at the party. She’s a HUGE gossip. Everyone’s going to know that we flirted all night and left together.”

“And here I thought we were leaving together because you actually like me.”

“Oh, I do like you, very much,” she reassures him. “You were a little uptight tonight, though.”

He tightens his hands around the steering wheel, tries for a casual tone, knows she’s watching his face in the darkness. 

“I see Harper nearly every day, but Monty and Jasper, and all the rest of them? I haven’t seen them since my mom died. And when I saw them at her funeral, it felt like they were more there for Octavia than me. I’d see Miller at Troit every once in a while, but that was it, just in passing. They kept inviting me to things, though. I think everyone knows perfectly well that I wouldn’t have come tonight if it wasn’t for you.”

She studies him. 

“Why did you put so much distance between them and you? I don’t have friends from before, because I grew up this way, but I know people who say that maintaining their old friendships keeps them grounded.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be grounded.”

Bellamy tries to sound light, fails, wishes she would stop looking at him so intensely. 

Clarke turns to face forward, and after a beat she says,

“Lexa used to say that her friendship with Costia kept her from getting too caught up in her own bullshit.”

Bellamy knows Costia, and finds this doubtful. 

“Of course, she used their friendship as an excuse to hang out with her constantly and then started sleeping with her, so…”

Now he wishes he could examine her. 

“Is that why you two broke up?”

She sighs. 

“It can’t be called a breakup when I was never actually with her. We spent a lot of time together, and had a lot of fun, but ultimately I wasn’t ready to be out as bi, and she kept trying to force the issue. Then she started sleeping with Costia to punish me, and that was the end of that, even though I still loved her.”

They drive in silence for a bit, until arriving at a gated community. Clarke attempts to reach across Bellamy, her hair brushing his face, but her arms are too short and she sits back in a huff. 

“The code is 1-0-2.”

Clarke lives in a mission-style home, not too big but much larger than Bellamy’s place. 

“Do you want to come in? We can frantically refresh Josie’s site until the pictures/articles come up. Knowing her it won’t be more than an hour.”

So he follows her in, kicks off his shoes, and accepts a beer from the fridge that seems to only contain alcohol, yogurt, and carrot sticks.

“You know, most people keep groceries in their fridge.”

“Don’t laugh,” she orders, “Niylah usually does all the shopping, but she’s on vacation this week. I think I’ve ordered takeout every night. But I know Harper does the shopping for you, too, so you don’t have a leg to stand on if you’re thinking about making fun of me.”

She’s in bare feet, suddenly very small and delicate next to him. She’s pulled the front of her hair back with bobby pins and there are small smudges of mascara underneath each eye. 

She looks exhausted. 

She looks beautiful.

He reminds himself that falling in love with Clarke fucking Griffin is not on the table, downs the beer in a few gulps, and sets the bottle on the counter. Clarke leads him to an overstuffed, plush couch and at the exact moment they sit down together, he gets a text:

OB: What the fuck, Bell? Dating Clarke Griffin, and you didn’t even tell me?

“Shit.”

“What is it?” Clarke pulls his hand to read the words, then looks up at him with wide eyes.

It’s unfair and maybe embarrassing that she already knows a text from his sister could send him into a freefall. He considers carefully before texting back--he doesn’t want to outright lie, but he also knows he can’t tell her the truth. 

BB: We just met. It’s no big deal. I like her, but we’ll see what happens.

“Ouch,” Clarke protests. “You’re supposed to say you fell madly in love with me at first sight.”

“Excuse me, you gave me specific instructions not to fall in love with you.”

“Yes, but I meant...actual love. True love. You’re welcome to fall in fake love as soon as humanly possible.” She pauses. “How did you think it went tonight?”

He can tell Clarke has a habit of asking important questions in a casual voice, as if things don’t matter when they definitely do. 

“I feel like you got one over on me when you said tonight would be a trial run.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“You’d already met my friends, and knew they liked you and were rooting for things to go well.”

“First of all, according to you, said friends don’t care about you anymore. Even though that’s an outright lie, it’s what you told me in the car while you were feeling sorry for yourself,” Clarke objects. 

“And second of all?”

Clarke looks away. 

“Second of all, I never really know if people like me for me, or if they’re pretending because I’m famous and connected.”

Bellamy makes a small, sympathetic noise.

“I know what you mean, but Monty, Harper, and Jasper aren’t like that. And if they didn’t like you, they wouldn’t have invited you tonight—which they did, long before this little charade was thought up.”

“Likewise, if they didn’t care about you anymore, they wouldn’t have kept inviting you.”

“Stop logic-ing me.” 

Clarke is ignoring him, tapping away at her laptop. 

“Uh, Josie’s story hasn’t gone up yet.” She pokes around a bit more. “Nothing on TMZ or any of the others--how the hell did your sister find out?”

Bellamy sighs. 

“Fucking Jasper.”

Octavia sends a screenshot of Jasper’s picture of Clarke and Bellamy, adding,

OB: You look pretty cozy.

OB: I want to meet her. 

Five seconds more and she adds,

OB: I seriously can’t believe you never mentioned this to me.

“She never would have even texted me if Jasper hadn’t ratted us out. She’d be trying to avoid me like she always does.”

“So...thank Jasper when you see him next?”

“I didn’t want to have to lie to her about this so soon.” Bellamy rakes a hand through his hair. 

“You haven’t lied, exactly. You said we just met, and you like me. Both of those things are true, right?”

Bellamy sighs, and glares at her.

“You’re really, truly, irritatingly similar to Octavia.”

“Am I?” Clarke sags against the couch. “Tell me about her.”

She might as well have asked for his deepest, darkest, secret. She might as well have approached him with a scalpel and asked to carve out his heart. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she nudges his foot with her own. “We’re supposed to be falling in love, right? I imagine you told Echo all about her.”

Bellamy snorts. 

“We didn’t talk about that kind of thing.”

“What kind of thing? Family?”

“Hard things. We never talked about hard things. She met Octavia and Octavia was mean to her but we didn’t talk about why. We slept together, and partied together, and attended events together, and sometimes I almost thought I liked her, but we didn’t talk about hard things. I didn’t really trust her, I guess. And I was right not to--she slept with Roan right under my nose.”

He pictures Echo, her hair very straight, Cleopatra dress half-on, the night of the Halloween party. While Murphy was escorting a glassy-eyed Clarke out, Echo and Roan had found a spare bedroom and--

Yeah.

He’d promptly found some socialite in a Marilyn Monroe costume and pushed her up against a wall. She’d giggled all the way through the encounter, and when Echo had come storming down the hall with her eyeliner smeared he’d said, Don’t call me.

Clarke touches his arm.

“Bellamy, we’re going to be friends. We’ll never get through the next year if we’re not. So please believe me when I say that you can trust me.”

“We’re actors, Clarke. Like, seriously: how would I know if you were lying to me right now?”

Clarke crooks her pinky at him. Mirth plays at the edge of her lips, her eyes are bright. She looks like a child. 

“Let’s pinky swear. If you ever don’t know where you stand with me, you can ask me if what I’ve said is the truth, and I promise I will tell you.” 

Bellamy regards her. 

“Also, Bellamy, if you think I’m such a good actress that I could sit here and lie to your face about whether or not I’ll keep your secrets...you’re seriously overestimating my acting skills.”

Reluctantly he reaches out his pinky for hers and catches it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's a disaster all the time, and it doesn't change anytime soon.


	5. These Lives are Completely Meaningless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy is an idiot. Yes, again.

“I need another beer if we’re going to talk about my sister.”

“I’ve got to get out of this skirt, help yourself.” 

Clarke runs lightly up the stairs and Bellamy pries open the fridge. When she returns she’s wearing 1950s-style silk jammies, and carrying a pair of flannel pants for him. 

“I thought you might want to change.”

“And you had these just laying around?” His voice is teasing, and a small blush appears on her cheeks. “Clarke Griffin, are you always prepared in case of gentleman callers?”

“Something like that.” Clarke pulls a beer out for herself and tips it towards the hallway. “There’s a guest room on the left.”

Bellamy unloads his pockets onto the nightstand and changes, then grabs his phone to return to the living room. Another text from Octavia comes in--

OB: Don’t ignore me, Bell. I want to meet her. 

He flashes the message at Clarke as he slumps next to her.

“Tell her I’m throwing a small birthday party for Wells Jaha next weekend, I’ll have the invite to her by Monday.”

He doesn’t want to be frustrated with Clarke for immediately conceding to Octavia, but he is. Power plays are Octavia’s specialty, and she’ll think she’s won.

BB: Clarke’s throwing a birthday party for a friend next weekend--you’ll get the invitation ASAP

BB: And O--best behavior, okay?

And she immediately writes back,

OB: Always, big brother. 

Why does she lie to him all the time? 

Clarke’s got her eyes on his face again, watching the way his jaw is clenched.

“Why do you look at me like that?” He snaps irritably. 

She looks hurt. 

“Like what?”

“Like--like--you know how I’m feeling.”

“I think your relationship with Octavia is a lot like mine with my mom, and I know how painful that is for me.” She reaches to touch his arm. “My mom’s been punishing me for 11 years because my dad was headed to pick me up the night he died. What’s Octavia punishing you for?”

He stands abruptly, pulling away from her. 

“No offense, but we barely know each other,” he tells her coldly. “I’m not ready to discuss my trauma.”

She pulls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around them, looks like she’s trying to protect herself from him. 

“Of course. You’re right.” Her voice is small. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep. Actually, I’m really tired, I think I’ll go to bed. There’s, um, a toothbrush and stuff in the bathroom across from the spare bedroom.”

“I’d go home, but—“

“No, you’ve been drinking. Stay.”

As she rises from the couch he catches her wrist. 

“Clarke, don’t start punishing me, too.”

She regards him with pool-blue eyes, and he almost spills every secret he’s ever had, just to convince her to stay with him, just to wipe that look off her face. She wrenches her arm free with a shrug.

“How could I punish you? We barely know each other.” She closes her laptop. “I’m just tired.”

He knows he deserves that, grabs her wrist again anyway.

“Is that the truth? Remember, you pinky swore.” He tries for a charming smile, but her face is all seriousness. 

Clarke pulls free again, more gently this time.

“It’s as true as you want it to be.”

That feels like a cop-out answer, but Bellamy watches her climb the stairs without another word. 

When he finally crawls into bed there’s another text from Octavia--wordless, but screenshots of a half-dozen pictures of him with Clarke, and then another of a short article full of gossipy language. Then another article. Then another.

Disney Princess Spotted with Notorious Bad Boy

Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake Get Cozy at Exclusive Viewing Party

Opposites Attract -- Is Clarke Griffin Dating Bellamy Blake?

Bellamy stares at the photos, doesn’t read the articles. Then he puts the phone face down and twists up in the sheets, lonely, wondering if his coldness to Clarke has torn the whole damn thing for him. 

Agreeing to intertwine their fates is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done; he’ll never be comfortable enough with her to share his secrets, and the whole world will know they’re a fake. 

No.

He’s an actor.

He can sell this. 

They can sell this. 

At noon Bellamy wakes up to the rich smell of coffee, and he follows the scent to the kitchen like a bloodhound. Clarke is there, looking fresh as a daisy and fully dressed in skinny jeans and a red flannel shirt, hair in another messy bun. 

She hands him a black coffee and he grunts his thanks. She gives him five minutes of sipping before she launches in:

“So we can play this one of two different ways, I think.”

He raises his eyebrows: Go on.

“We can go out for brunch and be seen out together; people will draw the conclusion that we spent the night together. Which, technically, is true. Or you can sneak out of here and I won’t see you again til you accompany me as my date to Wells’s birthday party Friday night.”

“You and your technicallys.”

It seems like she wants to skip over last night, and he’s happy to do the same. 

“Which do you prefer?”

Clarke stares into her coffee cup.

“I know it’s a little childish of me, but I don’t want it to look like we slept together so soon.”

He nods.

She races through her next words:

“I know that part of this is that you’re supposed to make me look like I’m maturing, and getting more of an edge, and I know that I am considered quite prudish and all, especially with some things that Finn said about me…”

Bellamy curls his fingers around his mug--how dare anyone talk about Clarke that way?

“I want to encourage the teenage girls who follow me to have healthy sexual habits and I worry that this is an uneven power dynamic--you’re older and you’ve had a lot more partners--and I don’t want to confuse them into thinking that one night stands with older and more experienced men they barely know are the way to go because--”

“Clarke,” Bellamy interrupts gently, “hey. It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, and especially not about that.”

They are both white-knuckled around their mugs, she finally looks up at him. He’s surprised to see tears bright in her eyes. Without thinking he reaches out, touches her hand.

“You don’t think it’s juvenile?”

“No. I don’t.” Bellamy hesitates. “As much as we’re trying to show different sides of ourselves, I don’t want you to lose who you already are.” He finds himself echoing Murphy’s words. “You’re a good person, I don’t want this to change you.”

“Maybe I want to change, at least a little.” Clarke adds more coffee to both of their mugs. “Okay, so, this is Wells’s golden birthday--he’s turning 27 on the 27th. So it’s a Golden Gala, black tie. You’re supposed to wear gold, bring a present wrapped in gold paper, have the present itself be something gold--the whole nine.”

“Octavia told me she wants to have a gold party when she turns 25 next year, I had no idea that was something people actually do. I half-thought she was making it up or it was only something those ridiculous kids she went to school with were doing.”

“It is a little ridiculous--Wells wouldn’t have thrown one for himself, but I sure as hell will. He’s practically a brother to me.”

“So I need a tux, and a gold present. What did you get for him?”

Clarke blushes--she blushes a lot, and it’s endearing, the way her cheeks go pink--and he knows it’ll be something ridiculously extravagant. 

“A Piaget watch.” 

Bellamy’s eyes go wide. 

“I know, I know! But we grew up in each other’s pocket--our families are super close--and we’ve always been like siblings. It’s something valuable, to show him how much I value him. He would never accept something so expensive if I gave him a choice. So I figured I wouldn’t give him the chance to say no.”

“If he wanted something that expensive he could probably buy it for himself.” Bellamy sounds judgemental, and he doesn’t mean to, but Christ, in some states you can buy a house for the cost of a gold Piaget. And Wells Jaha has no need of being given expensive presents. He’s just been cast in an upcoming Star Wars movie, the first in a trilogy, not to mention his father is some kind of tech genius and they’re already rolling in money. 

“Stop judging me, Bellamy, I can see your mind working.”

“What did you give Murphy at his golden birthday party?”

Something sweeps across her eyes. She closes down in an instant, face shuttered, body stiff. 

“He didn’t have one,” she says, and the conversation is over, just like that.

There’s a story there, Bellamy thinks, but it’s not fair for him to expect Clarke to tell him now. Not after he shut her out last night.

Their goodbye is awkward. A real couple would kiss, real friends would hug. They feel like neither, still just two people dancing around each other. Clarke asks for Octavia’s number, and despite the twist in his stomach at the thought of the two of them communicating, he hands it over. Then she asks if she should send a car for him on Friday, which makes him laugh. She stammers that there’s not much parking at the venue--he assures her that he will make his own way there. As he turns away she calls hopefully--

“Text me?”

And he turns to flash her a smile and a nod.

Which is why, on Monday, he finds himself staring at his phone blankly, feeling like he does every time he tries to write to Octavia. Head empty, hands nervous. Finally he settles on--

BB: How goes the party planning?

And sends it before he can convince himself it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever said to anyone in his entire life.

It’s only a few seconds before she writes back:

CG: An actual fiasco tbh. The florist backed out this morning. At this point am considering buying bouquets at Whole Foods and spray painting them gold. Think I’m losing it.

BB: I always use Luna at Tidewater Blooms to send arrangements. Maybe she can help? She’s talented beyond bouquets for one-night-stands who are mad at me.

CG: You are a literal lifesaver. Calling her now.

There is only a half-second pause before she adds:

CG: Hope your day is going better than mine. 

BB: I hate that you gave me all week to get steadily more nervous about meeting your friends. 

This time it’s twenty minutes before she responds. Twenty minutes for him to decide that he’s needy, and pitiful, and shouldn’t have said it, even though he was half-joking. 

CG: Just got off the phone with Luna. She’s stoked to do it, I’m heading to her shop right now. She says thanks. I say thanks. Thanks thanks thanks.

Then:

CG: Don’t stress. You already met Murphy, everyone else will be a walk in the park. 

On Wednesday he sends her a snap of his tux. The jacket has a gold jacquard pattern and it cost a hell of a lot more than he’s ever spent on any piece of clothing, then more for the rush-order tailoring. He has a feeling Clarke will appreciate commitment to the theme, and if he’s really being honest, he wants to impress her.

She sends back a string of emojis, and beyond the kissy lips he doesn’t even know what they mean, but it seems positive. 

On Thursday she calls him, and her voice is wound tight. 

“Listen,” she says, without preamble, “I just talked to your sister.”

“You...what?” His head spins a little. 

“Commit to being calm right now. I need that from you, please.”

“Clarke, spit it out.”

“Yeah. Uh. You know that Navy SEAL, nine-years-older, totally inappropriate boyfriend your sister has?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

“She’s bringing him tomorrow. And she called me because--”

“I know why she fucking called you,” Bellamy grits out. “She thinks that she can manipulate you, and you can manipulate me, into not making a scene--”

“Bellamy, Bellamy, Bellamy,” she chants at him. “Take a breath.” 

He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales loudly. 

“More talented people than your sister have tried to manipulate me and been unsuccessful. But she had a point: not only is this my first time meeting her, and not only are we trying to frame ourselves as falling in love, and not only is this a party for my friends, and not only do I want it to go well--but you and your sister need to figure out how to inhabit the same space without it devolving into a fucking brawl. And Bellamy--she’s your only family.”

“I know that!” He snaps at her. “I didn’t even want you to invite her in the first place. I sure as hell didn’t want you texting her and talking to her on the phone, and I really, really didn’t want you to invite her latest piece of man candy to a party full of people you’re trying to impress! You want us to be friends so fucking bad--why aren’t you on my side?” 

“I don’t know why you would see me wanting you to get along with your sister as not being on your side,” her voice is soft. “It’s only one night. Can you do this for me? I won’t push the issue again.”

Bellamy backs up to the wall, slides down it to sit on the floor. 

“Clarke, you don’t know what I--” he breaks off, not even sure what he intends to say. 

What I did? What I’ve broken? What I am at the end of the day, stripped of this veneer? 

Or maybe:

What I gave up? What I sacrificed? What I paid for in blood and bone?

He’s been silent for a moment too long, and Clarke asks hesitantly,

“Bellamy, do you want me to come over there? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m…”

Not fine. 

Not fine at all.

He can hear her fumbling around on the other end. 

“Text me your address.”

“Clarke.”

“It’s too late now,” Clarke admonishes, “I’ve already put my shoes on.” 

He’s lonely. 

He’s sad. 

He sends the text.  
It’s barely a half-hour before Clarke is standing on his doorstep, a pizza box balanced on her hip, a six-pack of beer in her other hand. She’s wearing baggy jeans rolled up at the bottom and a cropped top with an oversized cardigan, and there’s a fleck of gold paint on her cheek. He decides it’s cute, and doesn’t tell her.

“I hope you don’t hate olives,” she breezes past him into the condo.

“Hello to you, too.” He follows her into the hall, where she’s kicking off her shoes to reveal socks printed with cacti. “Cute.” 

Clarke saunters down the hall like this is her place, heading for the kitchen like she knows exactly where it is. She drops the pizza on the island and smiles at his confused look. 

“My friend Jackson lives in this building. I haven’t been to his place a lot, but I know it well enough.”

“Oh, yeah, I know him. Upstairs and across the hall, right?” At Clarke’s quick nod, he adds curiously, “what does he do? He comes and goes at all hours.” 

“He’s a concierge doctor. You’re lucky to have him so close, really. He costs an arm and a leg but he’s good at his job and very discreet.”

“Do I want to know why you’re such good friends with a concierge doctor that you know your way around his house?”

“Nope,” she tells him cheerfully. “You really don’t.”

Bellamy opens the cupboards to hand her a plate, and she flips open the pizza box. He squints at the pie.

“Somehow I was expecting one of the fancy pizza places. You know, like, prosciutto and burrata cheese or something.”

“Eh, those are great and everything, but when I’m upset I like a really junk pizza, lots of grease and super chewy crust.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Uh-huh. I got pepperoni, olives, and mushrooms.”

“I’m not picky. Except for pineapple. In fact, I think that’s why things didn’t work out with Echo. She liked Hawaiian pizza--revolting.”

Clarke looks casual but her voice has something undefinable when she replies lightly:

“The least of her sins, I’m sure.”

Bellamy watches her play with the edge of her napkin, asks:

“You don’t like her very much, do you?”

“Despite my sunshiney reputation, there are actually a lot of people I don’t like.”

“You’re good at non-answers, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Not that many people have the nerve to tell me what they think of me to my face. So: both Wells and Murphy have told me that, and no one else.”

“In good company, I suppose.”

“Very good company,” she clinks her beer against his. 

“Do you wanna tell me why you don’t like her?”

“Do you wanna tell me why you got so upset earlier?” She cocks her head, face all innocence.

“Alright, so that’s a no.” He pulls a slice of pizza onto his plate, making a little mmm at the long stretch of cheese. “God, you know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?”

“The way to anyone’s heart is cheap pizza with too much cheese. God, I dated this girl once, I took her pizza the night we broke up, and she wasn’t even mad…”

Bellamy looks at her more closely.

“You don’t exactly seem shattered about that.”

She licks a blob of tomato sauce from the corner of her mouth.

“Well, I’m not. We both knew it was short-term, a fling, you know? You’ve had them too, I assume. Some barista or a girl you met at a party? Someone low-key, who wouldn’t shout to the world that they had a moment with Big, Bad, Bellamy Blake?”

Gina.

He pictures her: soft brown eyes, curls that fell around his face as they moved together under sheets, the way she’d smile and wave every time they parted, and the way she’d quietly acquiesced when he chose his sister over her, every single time. 

Octavia’s immediate hatred of every girl he’d ever dated was almost as bad as her temper, and he was more than a little nervous about how she was going to react to Clarke. 

Bellamy thinks that this time he’ll tell Clarke the truth, without her prying, without him overthinking it.

The truth.

After all, they’re supposed to be falling in love.

“Octavia,” he begins, “the thing is,” he stammers, “it’s just that…”

Clarke is still, a pepperoni halfway to her mouth, she locks her eyes on his. 

“You don’t know her, you won’t understand,” he finishes lamely. 

Truth be damned.


	6. Anyone Would Die to Feel Your Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There is a small part where one character tries to convince another to leave the room and is handsy with her. Nothing happens beyond that, but just in case that would bother you I wanted to let y'all know.

Clarke places the pepperoni back on her plate, wipes her fingers on a napkin, stretches her shoulders and gives him a small, sympathetic smile. 

“Let me help,” she offers. “Octavia hates all the girls you date, right? Probably always has, but it’s been much more aggressive over the past few years. Everyone knows that you and Echo broke up because she slept with Roan, but there was more to it than either of you are letting on.”

He’s almost annoyed with her, how quickly she pegs things, how obvious his secrets must be.

“Octavia--” he tries again. “She used to send Echo these awful texts, and once she showed up at my place and if I hadn’t held her back she would have punched Echo. One night I was drunk, I thought I’d give as good as I got, I sent the same kinds of texts to her boyfriend, and started that fight with him. I know it was childish, and I know we’re toxic, but I feel like I broke something I’m not equipped to fix.”

“Why do you think she’s so against you having relationships?” Clarke’s shredding the label on her beer bottle with quiet purpose, eyes still on him. 

“I don’t know if she’s jealous, or if she just doesn’t want me to be happy.” He feels nauseated. “If it’s the first, I understand, but if it’s the second…”

“You can tell me why she’s so angry with you. I won’t judge you, Bellamy. Whatever you did or she thinks you did.”

He tries to shrug it off; no big deal, just a bit of family drama. 

“Our mom...” 

_Is dead._

Clarke knows that, of course, and she’s already giving him the dead parent pity eyes. He’s an expert on those, he sees them in every interview, from first dates to new friends to Raven and Harper the entire month of October, every fucking year. 

The eyes are a little different from Clarke, though, who lost her own parent eleven years ago, so he tries not to be irritated with her.

Another beginning:

_“Our mom was…”_

_A fucking mess._

_Neglectful._

_A lady of the night?_

_A wreck at the best of times?_

_At the worst of times…_

He doesn’t want to think about the worst of times.

“Flawed?” Clarke suggests kindly. 

The brutal laugh he gives shocks her a little, and she reaches out for his hand, but he doesn’t want to be comforted, stands dizzily, backs up against the wall, slides back into his earlier position. 

“Hey,” she says, her voice full of concern, kneeling in front of him. “Hey, listen--”

“You should know what you’re getting into,” he shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair, “you should know, because people are going to be looking at us and they’re going to want to know things, everyone’s going to find out--”

“I think I should know because you need to talk to someone about it, not because you’re worried about my reputation, okay?” She’s got both hands on the arm he’s wrapping around his knees, leans back slightly to sit criss-cross applesauce in front of him. “Bellamy, no one understands better than me what it’s like to have a parent who’s…” she thinks, falls back on her first word: “flawed.”

Bellamy pushes his fingers against his eyelids. 

“Octavia and I have different dads. Uh, I know that’s not scandalous or anything, but we have different dads and neither of us know our dad. And, our mom, she could never really keep a job for very long, sometimes she’d just stay in her bed for weeks. She never took good care of us, and sometimes men would come and go at night…”

He doesn’t want to see the look on Clarke’s face as she puts two and two together.

“When I was maybe twelve I put it together for the first time. And I realized--” he swallows painfully. “I don’t know about my father, but I realized Octavia’s must have been a...client…”

Now he does take a peek at Clarke, and she’s full of sympathy. She gives his arm a squeeze. Her face is close, he could drown in her eyes. 

He wants to drown in her eyes. 

“When I got cast in that dumbshit surfing movie I sent Octavia to a private boarding school with most of my first check, to get her out of there. But then my mom got sick. And I just didn’t tell Octavia, sent her to stay with a friend that first summer, and she didn’t find out til Christmas and she was furious. But she was young. And I was technically an adult with a promising career in acting, and Kane helped me strong-arm lawyers to give me custody of her because Mom was sick, and O was mad but I thought she understood--I really did. And after our mom died I thought we put everything that happened behind us, I swear, I thought she knew why I sent her to private school, I thought she understood that I was protecting her, but then when I started dating Echo it was like, oh God, she said the most awful things to me the night they met.” 

_“You never even loved me! You just shipped me off and gave me money so you wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore! You’re probably glad Mom’s dead, so she can’t make you look bad in front of your stupid girlfriends! You probably wish I was dead, too!”_

_Her attention turns to Echo, she laughs and it’s ugly._

_“He probably didn’t tell you, did he? Our mother was a whore. She slept with men for money. Hell, Bellamy’s probably the son of one of her hundred-dollar-lays.”_

_Echo’s eyes are narrowing, her perfectly manicured hand is tight on the back of the sofa. He thinks she’s mad at him, but no, her next words are for Octavia:_

_“Get out.”_

_Octavia surges forward, elbow pulling back, fist forming. Bellamy pushes between them, but Echo turns away, flings open the door, orders Octavia:_

_“Get the fuck out before I call the police.”_

_“A whore’s son, a whore’s boyfriend,” Octavia hisses on her way out._

_Echo slams the door:_

_“Fuck’s sake, Bellamy, why didn’t you warn me--”_

_But Bellamy’s closed his eyes, trying not to break, shakes his head at Echo,_

_“I’m sorry, I’ll go home, I--”_

_“No, what? You’re staying here. I can’t let you leave when she just said all of those horrible things to you! You shouldn’t be alone. God, Bellamy, how have you been putting up with that for the past 20 years? I’m exhausted after 20 minutes. We need wine. Or Xanax. Maybe both? Sit down.”_

_He’d never loved her, but he came close in that moment._

“My sister said I didn’t love her,” he whispers to Clarke. “My whole life, I’ve never loved anyone else.”

Clarke scrambles up, lines up her back with Bellamy’s, puts an arm around his bowed shoulders. 

“I think she knows that perfectly well. Otherwise it wouldn’t be her go-to when she wants to hurt you.” She’s calm, consoling, exactly the right injection of this really sucks but you’re gonna be okay in her tone. “I see why you’re afraid of us meeting, but I can hold my own.”

He presses his cheek to her shoulder. She smells like laundry detergent, and a tiny bit like paint. 

“You’re too nice, Clarke. She’s going to chew you up and spit you out.”

“I’m nice to you, Bellamy. Not too nice in general.”

“Lies,” he says from his position on her shoulder. “You’re literally known for being nice--to people you work with, to your fans, even to your ex-boyfriends who say twisted shit about you after you break up.”

“That’s acting, Bellamy.”

“To Monty and Harper. You weren’t acting, then.”

“Monty and Harper are good people. They deserve Nice Clarke.”

“I’m not a good person, why do I get Nice Clarke?”

She doesn’t move, but he thinks she’s rolling her eyes. 

“Just because you haven’t been acting like a good person doesn’t mean you aren’t a good person.”

“See? That’s the sort of shit a nice person would say.”

He knows it’s time to move on; get up from the floor, stop spilling his guts. But Clarke is soft and warm, and when she speaks the vibrations go all the way down to his very soul. 

She came out to his house because he was upset.

They barely know each other, but:

This is a friend.

And it’s been a long damn time since he had one of those.

“Listen.” She pats his cheek. “I know you’re worried about Octavia. But I’ve got about five contingency plans in case various things go wrong. And a lot of security. I asked you this before and I’m asking you again: Can you trust me?”

Might as well, he figures.

Can’t be worse.

Might be better.

“I really have to go home,” she stretches her legs, “so many last minute details, so little patience.”

“You came out here to spend like...forty five minutes with me?”

“Of course I did. Don’t you know? We’re a scandal, Bellamy Blake. Disney Princess, Hollywood Bad Boy, rushing head over heels into an ill-advised relationship, against the wishes of our friends and family!”

“Yeah, uh, of course we are.”

She eyes him, there might as well be a question mark over her head. 

“You don’t google yourself, do you?”

“Ah, no. Never.”

“Don’t start,” she’s got another smile for him, and it feels like a present even though she’s moving away to tie her shoes. “See you tomorrow, yeah? Bring your A-game when it comes to both dancing, and dealing with your sister.”

“I have to dance?” he squeaks, “I really, really don’t like dancing.”

“You’ll be with me,” Clarke opens the door, “safe as houses.” 

In the doorway she stands on tiptoe and brushes a kiss across his cheek. 

He watches her go with his fingertips over his cheekbone, barely touching the burn her lips left behind. 

Clarke really knows how to throw a party, that’s for certain. There are so many revelers in flashy golden dresses and tuxes that Bellamy can’t even find her, and several waitstaff have pressed glasses of champagne in and out of his hands--he should have eaten, he can’t be tipsy already. 

He is tipsy already, and damn it, there’s his sister in a fringed gold dress that moves with her every quiver, her hair scraped back from her face into something that can best be described as a fauxhawk, her face alight with smiles as she faces Clarke and Murphy.

And Clarke...oh god, Clarke. Her dress is shimmering sequins from top to bottom, with a plunging neckline that makes his mouth dry. Her hair is pulled back on one side and perfectly waved a la Veronica Lake; she screams Old Hollywood. Every girl in the room is emulating her style, none of them are even approaching pulling it off with such panache. Murphy’s got his hand on her back with something like pride on his face. Look at this girl, he seems to be saying, isn’t she the prettiest in the room?

She is, Bellamy thinks, but she doesn’t belong to you. So he cuts purposefully through the crowd, puts a hand on his sister’s shoulder, but leans towards Clarke to kiss her. He touches her jaw lightly, holds her chin, says reverently,

“You look phenomenal.” And kisses her lips gently, like it’s familiar but still a privilege. 

No one knows it’s their first kiss, but Clarke’s eyelashes flutter a little, and when her lips curve it feels private, just for him. 

Octavia says,

“Ew,” but she’s teasing, and pulls him towards her for a hug. She pats the arm of his jacket, admiring it, and says something he doesn’t quite hear about how expensive her boyfriend’s tux was. 

Said boyfriend smiles a bit sheepishly and offers his hand. Clarke is quick to jump in before an awkward silence can take over. 

“Bellamy, you’ve met Lincoln before, right?”

“We should both pretend he hasn’t,” Lincoln suggests, and it seems like an olive branch. 

Bellamy accepts it.

Clarke and Octavia exchange a look, relief barely concealed on their faces, and he knows he’s done the right thing--even if the look rubs him the wrong way. 

And Clarke’s standing way too close, her perfume making him dizzy again, she’s all teeth as she drags him to officially meet Wells. 

Wells Jaha is tall and well-built, with chocolate skin and a perfect smile. Bellamy met him at a party thrown by Azgeda Enterprises once, he was dating Echo’s model friend Fox at the time, but it was a: You remember Fox? This is her boyfriend, Wells in that casual, irritating way people in this town can introduce the rich and famous. (Who have ridiculous names: Echo? Fox? Wells? But then, he’s Bellamy, so he shouldn’t cast stones.) Wells is rich, like, rich-rich, with a tech-genius dad and a long list of movie roles under his arm, and he is wearing a literal crown tonight. He shakes Bellamy’s hand firmly, but his eyes are all for Clarke, and Bellamy feels it immediately: Wells was supposed to be--Wells wants to be--her Prince Charming. What’s worse is Bellamy can see how perfect it would be for Clarke: an easy, untroubled young man, with money and pedigree, unproblematic, a lifelong friend.

Or at least it seems so, until Wells returns from a private room with his pupils blown wide, and while Clarke keeps smiling and socializing and drinking, it’s clear she’s uncomfortable. Wells has become handsy and sloppy, all over her, and when she shakes off his arm for the tenth time they have a whisper argument that gets just a little loud. Bellamy tries to play it off, casual, twirling Clarke onto the dance floor and away from Wells. Her hair’s fallen out of the barrette that held it back on one side, and she’s wearing Wells’s crown. Her smile’s just a little bit shaky, but when Bellamy puts a careful hand on her waist and laces his fingers through hers she rallies. 

“Have I mentioned how handsome you look tonight?”

“If there’s one thing I’m sure of between us, it’s that you find me physically attractive,” Bellamy tells her drily. 

“As long as you know,” she replies with a tiny laugh, and he twirls her again. When she comes in close he leans towards her:

“You can be sure of the reverse, you know? You’re fucking gorgeous.” 

“Anyone can be objectively pretty,” Clarke is drunk, for sure. “I know I’m pretty. Everyone says so.”

“I don’t just think you’re pretty, Clarke,” Bellamy tilts her chin, looks in her eyes. “When I see you...you’re so beautiful, my heart stutters a little.” 

Shit, he’s drunk, too. 

“You’re a great dancer,” she’s waltzing dreamily, the party is a riot that feels miles away, and he pokes her crown and says, 

“Not so bad yourself, Princess.”

“Everyone’s watching,” she tells him, suddenly sharp. “Now would be a good time to kiss me, and I’ll stare up at you like you’re the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You weren’t already doing that?”

“Maybe I was,” she teases, “guess you’ll never know--”

He cuts her off with a slow, sweet kiss, and she melts into him, and it feels like the room goes quiet around them, even though he knows the crowd is still roaring, half of them coked up, the other half drunk. 

It’s the right kiss for the moment, even if it’s not exactly the type of kiss he wanted to give her when she was pressed up against him and his hand was resting on the curve of her hip. 

He might not want it to end.

He might be more drunk than he thought, and even as he brushes Clarke’s hair out of her face and then lets his hand trail over her shoulder and down her bare back, he can’t tell if he’s playing to an audience or indulging himself in the feeling of her feathery hair and her warm, soft skin.

Bellamy realizes with a sudden drop in his stomach that he’s barely seen Octavia all night, and it’s only a second before she appears near his elbow with pupils blown nearly as wide as Wells’s, and her affection nearly as sloppy as she puts her arms around Clarke’s shoulders.

He doesn’t quite hear their words at first, only Clarke’s giggles, and then Octavia raises her voice, and she’s effusively ranting:

“I know they say that you should never meet your heroes but that doesn’t fuckin’...Clarke, it doesn’t apply to you at all, you’re so gorgeous, and funny--funny, yeah, and nice to my brother even though he’s like a total wreck literally all the time, EVEN THOUGH,” and here she leans closer to Clarke to say confidentially yet loudly, “he thinks I am the wreck, but he is totally the wreck. You’re nice though, mmhm you are, you’re gonna help him not be the wreck. For sure.”

“Ohhhhhkay,” Lincoln wraps a muscular arm around Octavia’s waist, trying to pull her away from Clarke. “I think it’s time to go home, Babe.”

“You have really pretty hair,” Octavia tangles her fingers in Clarke’s curls, “I always wanted to have hair like you, but HE wouldn’t let me,” and now Clarke’s eyes are getting big, “he always used to say I was too young, and it would destroy my hair, but I think he just likes to control me.”

Clarke clucks soothingly:

“I always wanted to have brown hair. And dying it would have made your hair super unhealthy, so--”

“Don’t take his side,” Octavia’s tone gets darker: “Everyone takes his side.” 

Lincoln murmurs to Clarke, 

“God, it was so nice to meet you, can’t wait til we can talk art again.” And to Bellamy: “I appreciate the second chance.” He hauls Octavia bodily off of Clarke: “C’mon, definitely time for bed. Say good night, Octavia.”

“Good night, Octavia,” she cries out obediently as he pulls her into the night. 

He’s totally the wreck.

Everyone always takes his side.

Clarke takes his hand. 

“Blow it off,” she murmurs. “We’ll talk about it later.”

So he forces a smile and a laugh, shakes his head, pushes jokes to his lips about his wild sister. 

Bellamy doesn’t know what time it is when the party finally breaks apart, has met a thousand people, remembers helping Clarke and her assistant gather up the presents to send home with Wells’s assistant, only knows that Clarke has dark circles under her eyes and her lipstick is gone, but she’s still wearing the crown. She sends Niylah away with a clasp of the hand, thanking her in a way that Bellamy considers using on Harper, all sincerity, all can’t wait to see you again. 

“How long has she been with you?” he asks, and Clarke’s expression is blank.

“What do you mean? Been with me?”

“Your assistant? Niylah?”

Clarke gives him a head tilt, a judgment.

“Long enough that I call her a friend, not an assistant.”

“A friend you pay,” Bellamy watches the cater-waiters and the cleanup crew with gritty eyes. 

“A friend who does the shit for me I don’t want to do for myself, and deserves her paycheck.”

“She does those things because you pay her, not because she cares about you.”

Clarke gives a shiver as she collects her things, but her voice is steady and she’s all logic:

“This isn’t about Niylah, it’s about Harper. You think you can’t be friends with her because she’s on the payroll? You’ve known her your whole life, Bellamy. She helped facilitate all of this.” Clarke gestures between the two of them. “She cares about you, she was worried about you. You can’t buy that kind of loyalty.”

Bellamy drapes his jacket around her shoulders, puts his arm around her waist.

“You see right through me, Princess. It’s fucking irritating.” Putting his nose in her curls, he adds, “not many people left to see, but how’re we doing our exit tonight?”

“Together,” she says, and he can see she’s completely exhausted. “You live closer and Niylah brought my car and a bag--back to yours? Are you sober enough to drive?”

“Yeah, haven’t had a drink in hours. And I took a car here, so you want me to drive yours?”

“I’m dead on my feet...and you know the way.” 

He tightens his grip on her waist, straightens the crown and his jacket.

“Together, then.”

“Wait,” she says in the doorway, and he watches her kick off her heels.

The text Octavia sends him the next day is perfect: Clarke in his jacket and Wells’s crown, holding her shoes in one hand. She’s leaning into Bellamy with half-shut eyes, and he’s holding her in a tight line to his body with a slight curve to his mouth. 

Bellamy’s Princess? The headline says, and he thinks: well, at least for the next year, as he watches Clarke make conversation with Harper in her pajamas. 

Might as well make it a damn good year, right?


	7. Paranoia on My Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fighting and a lot of fluff.

He sends Harper home at two, and she’s barely out of the door before Clarke rounds on him with an exhausted smile:

“Take me for iced coffee, pleeeeeeeease.”

“It’s 2PM, and you want iced coffee?”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Bellamy. I’ve only been drinking hot coffee so you’ll think I’m normal. The truth is, I have an iced coffee addiction worse than any actor or model ever thought about having to blow. I figure if we’re going to be waking up in the same house frequently for the foreseeable future, you need to know the reality: I’m nothing without my caffeine over ice.”

“There are worse things to be addicted to,” he says, thinking of Octavia’s eyes the night before, or Wells’s hands all over Clarke. 

“So are we going grubby loved-up couple who slept in too late? Or are we going as if we know everyone’s talking about us and this is our low-key debut? I brought outfits for both.” 

Bellamy tries to read her face. 

“Which do you want?”

“Which do you think makes us interesting and relevant?” Clarke’s tapping her finger on her chin, and she pulls a sundress out. It’s china blue, patterned with tiny birds, and Bellamy knows it’ll make her eyes pop. “I wonder if Niylah packed my curling iron…”

He knows how tired she is, and won’t let her spend an hour on her hair and makeup today.

“Uh, no, no, no...let’s go for grubby and loved-up. Retain a bit of mystery. Debuting should come another time...Wells’s party isn’t a big enough event. Hang the dress in my closet, we’ll keep it for later.”

“Okay, awesome, because I do NOT feel like wearing makeup today…”

“This is implying that we slept together.”” Bellamy catches her face with his fingertips, pulls her chin towards him. “Is that okay with you?”

“It’s not the night we met anymore,” Clarke reminds him. “I met your sister last night. We’re kind of at a perfect time.”

_He’s the wreck._

_Everyone always takes his side._

“And we can talk about how I met your sister, when you want to?”

“After coffee,” he tells her, rooting through his drawers for his favorite faded band tee. Clarke’s already shrugging something soft and gray over her head, twining her fingers through her curls for a messy side braid. When she turns to look at him she gives a shocked little laugh:

“Bon Iver, Bellamy? Really?”

“It was an amazing show, like this little intimate thing at The Black Cat in DC, Justin Vernon was inches from me. I could see the sweat on his brow, Clarke.” 

“Mmm. Okay.” Clarke looks in the mirror and makes an irritated bzz under her breath. “Do you have a hat or a beanie or...something?”

Bellamy opens the second half of the closet, gestures towards a few shelves of baseball caps. She skips the sports teams and runs her finger over a black cap with the name BLAKE embroidered on the front, and she’s got a little snark in her voice when she says, 

“If I wear this they won’t stop talking until we confirm it.”

He plops it over her golden hair with a grin. 

“Let’s do it, then.” And a second later: “You mock my Bon Iver...what’s the last show YOU went to?”

“Harry Styles. I was down front and it was AMAZING. He wore this, like, velvet jumpsuit? And he did all of my favorite songs, super high energy—I danced my butt off.” 

Bellamy doesn’t bother hiding his grin. 

“And uh, who exactly accompanied you to this?”

He expects her to say Charlotte. Maybe he’s just old, but he’ll always associate Harry Styles with One Direction, and thus the purview of teenage girls. 

“Oh, Murphy. He danced HIS butt off, too.” 

“God, he’d go anywhere with you, wouldn’t he?”

“He would, yeah, but Harry Styles was his idea. We’d been having all these listening parties to Fine Line and the shows sounded great so we bought tickets and went and hung out with his crew afterward.” 

“Of course you did,” and he doesn’t mean to sound like he’s rolling his eyes, but he definitely is. 

“I also went to a Lizzo show last summer and that was amazing, too. Oh, and I saw The Avett Brothers at Wolf Trap in Virginia in August. It was hot as hell outside but the show was amazing. They did ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy’ which is one of my favorite covers, and they played with Old Crow Medicine Show.”

“You flew to Virginia just to see a show?”

Clarke snatches her purse from the bed, and she’s all caught up in her memories,

“I couldn’t make any of their other concerts so I bought the tickets and flew to Virginia. And Wolf Trap is gorgeous. I’d go back in a heartbeat.” She holds out her hand to him. “And I do like Bon Iver, I just didn’t take it for your favorite band.” 

“They’re not my favorite--your car or mine?”

“Mine, yours screams for attention, and we want to look like we’re trying to be low-key, even though we’re not.”

“Excuse me? You drive a beamer, Clarke, that’s pretty attention grabbing.” 

“Not in this town. And your stupid, shiny, brand new Range Rover with ridiculous rims, is the most begging-for-attention-bullshit I’ve ever seen.”

There’s something to her tone that makes him want to scream, so hoity-toity, so condescending, and he lets go of her hand to glare at her. 

“Maybe you should date Wells, instead, I’m sure he drives something classy but low-key.” It’s a low blow, he knows that, but he says it anyway. “He’s probably a lot more suited to you anyway. I’m just a social climbing B-lister, right?”

Clarke takes a step back from him. 

“Have you been saving that up since last night? God, you have a chip on your shoulder the size of Montana.”

Bellamy remembers how protective he felt when Wells kept touching her, making her uncomfortable.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.” 

“Because you’re insecure. Christ, Bellamy, I don’t see you like that. I just hate your car. And your temper.” She brushes past him towards the driver’s side. “Besides, Wells drives a fucking Tesla.”

She drives to a coffee shop where the owner clearly knows her, and gets a lavender vanilla iced latte, and Bellamy gets a Vietnamese iced coffee, which is probably the best thing he’s ever had, coffee-wise. 

“If I had one of these every day I’d weigh a million pounds,” he’s guiding her down the sidewalk with one hand on her hip, pretending not to notice people noticing them. 

“I think your career as super-hot-romcom-lead would probably go down the drain, but since you can actually act, you wouldn’t be too fucked. Unlike me, who’ll never get another role if I gain five pounds.” Her tone is unexpectedly bitter, and he moves his hand to hold hers. 

“Misogyny. Patriarchal bullshit. And besides, you’d still be hot, five pounds, ten pounds, twenty pounds…”

“Stop kissing my ass, Blake.”

“I think I have a caffeine high. You go to this shop every day?”

“No, but whenever I can. I usually settle for Peet’s or Starbucks, but Niylah’s dad owns that place, and every drink is to die for.”

“Oh,” Bellamy finds himself grinning like a fiend, “You shared your super secret caffeine hotspot with me? This must mean you like me.” 

“How many times do I have to reassure you that I like you?”

“A lot of times. Remember, I’m insecure?”

She pushes away from him with a scoff, “You are insecure, but that's not my responsibility.” 

He leans to kiss her cheek, "Be nice, people will think we're fighting," and she flashes him a sunny smile, standing on her toes to meet his lips. 

"We're more interesting that way," she says it into his mouth, head tilted, and he's pretty sure someone is snapping a picture of them because she is so perfectly posed. She pulls a buzzing phone out of her bag and sighs. "It's Wells. God, I'm not ready to deal with him yet," but she answers anyhow, with a cheerful, "hey, did you just wake up?" as she pulls away from Bellamy to lean next to a lightpost. 

To look like he's doing something, too, he pulls his own phone out, to find several texts from Octavia. He's guessing she probably just woke up, too. The texts have a different tone from her usual, she inquires as to whether or not she did okay meeting Clarke, and did he notice how hot Clarke looked last night, and she saw them dancing and they looked like such a golden couple, and...

Octavia isn't usually so effusive. She probably wants something, but he has no idea what it could be. Oh, here it comes:

 **OB: I was hoping to see you again soon. Having a party at my place this weekend, nothing fancy, just a hangout.**

Subtext: _Where I'll tell all my friends that Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake will be in attendance._

He shows the texts to Clarke, who's clearly putting off some sort of invitation from Wells, and she holds up a finger while she ends her call. 

"Ugh. He knows he got fucked up last night, and he knows I hate that, so now he wants to hang out and give me a fancy present--just the two of us. I wish he'd figure out that he can't buy his way out of shitty behavior." Clarke eyes Bellamy. "Learn that lesson now. I don't want a necklace if you act like an asshole. I just want a genuine apology."

"So I shouldn't buy you jewelry?" 

"I don't _need_ you to buy me anything, Bellamy. I can buy the things I want for myself." She takes a breath, warms up her tone, "but I guess it would be mean to tell you I never want you to give me anything. If you...if there's some reason you want to buy me a gift, like a holiday, or whatever, then make it something really personal. Something that reminds me of you, or us."

He stretches towards the sky, cracking his back, "Then do the same for me. I don't want a fucking Piaget watch or a golden birthday party, okay? I'm not anything like Wells."

"Until I met you in person, I actually thought you were exactly like him, or at least the him he's been for the past few years. It's been a pleasant surprise. And I...love him, so much, but I feel like I don't know him at all lately."

"If you thought I was exactly like him, why didn't you date him, instead?" He's got her cornered against the lightpost, head cocked, wrist on her shoulder, thumb on her jawline.

"He's more famous than I am, to start with. And...I didn't want to mess with our friendship. Wells is in love with me, but I'm not in love with him. I'd be a horrible person if I played mind games like that." Her mouth curves on one side: "Plus, you're hot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, just a short one tonight! Next is in the works and includes some primo Octavia drama. Thanks for kudos and comments!


	8. Left Me Out There Standing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Octavia's party does not go as planned, and Clarke loses her temper. 
> 
> (There is something discussed in this chapter that could be considered triggering. I've got it in the End Notes if you want to check those first, but it's a spoiler so I don't want to put it here.)

“What, exactly, is the dress code for a _casual hang_?”

Clarke’s been standing in front of the biggest walk-in closet Bellamy’s ever seen for a half an hour, wearing an oversized tee and plaid pajama shorts. He’d take her anywhere in just that outfit. 

“Like I know. I’m a guy, we wear jeans to almost everything.” He is wearing jeans and a button-down shirt printed with tiny blue forget-me-nots, sleeves rolled up. 

Clarke’s eyes sweep across his outfit again and she plunges into the closet for the fifteenth time to pull out another three dresses, holding them up against her in a mirror. 

“I don’t know,” she frets, “this one, maybe?” 

_This one_ is red gingham, and Bellamy vetoes it--” That looks like we’re going on a picnic. Octavia and her friends always wear super sexy clothes,” he makes a face-- “I mean, you saw her dress at Wells’s party.”

Clarke mumbles agreement and disappears again. She returns with a pair of cuffed black silk shorts with a tie-belt and a slightly cropped top that hangs off one shoulder in a hammered gray silk. With no shame and without looking back at Bellamy she sheds her clothes and shimmies into the new outfit. He averts his eyes like a gentleman, a flush rising up his neck and into his cheeks. 

Fucking embarrassing, to be affected by a woman this way. 

Clarke has another closet to open, filled with an amount of shoes that would make Octavia crazy with jealousy. She pulls out a wickedly high pair of heels--an almond toe and three delicate straps around the ankle. When she stands up to smile at him the outfit seems like one Octavia would approve of. 

“Okay?” she asks, and he gives her an enthusiastic yes. 

He can see a line of her ivory skin where the top and the shorts don’t meet. The irresistible urge to touch her makes his fingers tingle. Whenever they’re together he just wants to be close to her, and it’s not just because he should be, for photo ops and gossip columnists, it’s because she’s...her. A magnet. A gravity, pulling him in, and all she really has to do is be kind and understanding, and flash that grin and treat him like he’s special.

Bellamy wants to be special.

And they do look awfully pretty together in the photo ops. 

“Okay, let’s go over the plan,” she says briskly, plopping down on the bed next to him and picking through a jewelry box for rings. 

Right, a plan, because one should never go into battle with his sister without one, and Clarke’s was alarmingly simple:

“We’re going to be ourselves. I don’t know about this party, but the crowd Octavia normally rolls with is mostly trust fund kids, tech geniuses, and scattered celebs, no one major, who had nothing better to do. She’s using us--” here Bellamy winces “--I’m sorry, but it’s true, she’s using us to propel her upward. She’ll want to keep things rolling smoothly so we don’t leave.” Clarke puts her hand on Bellamy’s thigh. “But. If things do get...tense...then we’ll just say we have somewhere else to be, leave, and come back here and eat ice cream and watch reruns of Friends.”

“I think you’re trying to make me fat,” Bellamy says, patting her hand and standing up. It’s the second time they’ve hung out this week, and the first time she took him to a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant where they ate their weight in Chicken Tikka Masala, naan, and onion pakoras, and he’d had to take a shower that lasted a half an hour to get the smell of curry out of his hair. It was the best thing he’d eaten in at least a year. Clarke knew the owners and they’d greeted her like family, and Bellamy’s starting to wonder if she just ingratiates herself to the owners of every place she likes in this city. 

“I usually get takeout,” she’d told him, a slice of naan in her hand, “but the pakoras are so much better fresh.”

Now, she pins on a pair of crazy, flashy earrings that crawl up her ear with jet stones, adjusts her top to hang perfectly off her left shoulder, and looks like she’s thinking hard when she says, “We’ll take the Rover, this is the right occasion for something flashy...and my legs will look killer stepping out,” and he laughs right in her face while she straightens his collar.

Clarke’s eyes widen a bit at the size and lavishness of Octavia’s house, but she doesn’t say anything. There’s something in her jaw that says she’s not pleased, and he wonders if she thinks the house is gaudy. There are people everywhere, sprawled over couches and leaning on counters. Bellamy doesn’t recognize anyone except for Octavia’s friend Anya, a tall, gorgeous girl with cheekbones that could cut glass, who can always be found in proximity when Octavia’s partying. Things go south nearly immediately, because Lincoln greets them with worry written all over his face, and even though he hugs Clarke like an old friend, he whispers something in her ear that makes her stiffen for an instant. But then she rolls her shoulders and pulls back, turns to Bellamy and pulls him close, disguising a whisper as a kiss. 

“Octavia’s been locked in the bathroom for an hour, no one can get her out. Lincoln doesn’t know what’s wrong…”

No one seems to know, or care, that the hostess is missing.

“Lincoln wants you to try to talk to her?” Clarke’s nibbling on her lower lip, no trace of the cool persona she’d shrugged on when they stepped out of the car. 

Bellamy feels like a ten-ton weight crashes onto his shoulders. He’d resigned himself to tangling with Octavia tonight, but not to playing big brother to an overgrown teenager partying her life away. But he and Clarke follow Lincoln to a lavishly decorated bedroom, and Clarke perches on the bed nervously while he knocks on the door, clears his throat, and says, 

“O? It’s me.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Octavia replies, her voice sounding clogged and pathetic. “Can’t you just send everyone home?”

Clarke jumps up and strides out of the room. She’s all power, and he didn’t even know she could look like that, like she’s about to walk into a boardroom and take over, like she’s going to command a scene and win an Oscar. The music shuts off and he hears them shooing people and generally fussing. Clarke’s voice is strident even though he can’t hear what she’s saying. He has a feeling she’s kicking people out and brooking no argument. He slides down the outside of the bathroom door and says, 

“C’mon, O, what’s going on?”

On the other side, she lets out a little sob. “Bell, I don’t know what to do...I fucked up…”

Anxiety rises in his chest. “Can you open the door, please? Nothing’s going to get better with you sitting in there alone.”

The lock finally clicks and he opens the door to find her sitting in a miserable huddle in front of the sink cabinet, her face stained with tears and mascara and the heavy eyeliner she favors. Kneeling in front of her, he brushes her hair back from her face. “What the hell is going on?”

And she hands him a plastic stick with a little plus sign. It feels like a year passes before he can think of a response. 

From the doorway, Lincoln says softly, “Oh, shit.”

A chill washes over Bellamy, from his head to his toes.

Octavia bursts into tears again.

Clarke pulls on Lincoln’s sleeve, slips under his arm. 

“Okay, out,” she orders. “This is girl talk. Out out out.” She’s lost her high heels somewhere and wiped off her lipstick, she looks girlish and young and strong. 

“Clarke, I don’t think--” Bellamy’s warning dies on his lips as she shuts the door firmly in his face. 

In true older brother fashion, he stands and listens at the door, while Lincoln sits on the bed with an ashen face. 

Clarke soothes Octavia, “Shh...It’s okay, it’s okay… This is scary, but you can do it."

"I want to have an abortion," the younger girl sobs, "but everyone's going to find out, they'll know, they'll know..."

"They'll know, what, that you have a healthy sexual relationship? With your long term boyfriend? But anyway, you don’t have to decide tonight.”

“I don’t want to decide at all,” Octavia cries. “I just want it to have not happened! I can’t have a baby. I can’t. I don’t even know--my mom--she wasn’t a mother--”

“I know,” Clarke is consoling, Bellamy’s eyes are burning. “But you have a support system, you have Bellamy, and Lincoln…”

“Bellamy?!” Octavia’s all but shouting, her voice laced with bitterness. “Bellamy shoved me into a fancy boarding school as soon as he could! He didn’t take care of me! He just pushed me off on other people! I can’t depend on him for this, or anything, except money. No one loved me when I was growing up, not Bellamy, and definitely not my mom. I don’t know, like I physically do not know, how to raise a baby and love it and make it normal.”

“Octavia, I swear to you, if I know anything about your brother, it’s that he loves you and wants to be there for you. He just doesn’t know how. If you could talk to him--”

Bellamy barely hears her--he’s gone, blows out the door and to his truck, drives away without Clarke or a backwards glance, running from Octavia and her anger, her heartbreak, the way she utterly fails to understand that he sent her away to save her. He saw the way those men were looking at her, his mother’s clients. He saw them, he was terrified, and he had to get her out of there even if it meant ripping her away from his own grasp.

 _Even though_ it broke his heart.

 _Even though_ he loved her more than life itself, he would have done anything to protect her, and if that meant taking the majority of his paycheck to buy her snooty uniforms, and books, and a meal plan, and new shoes, and a comforter set for her dorm bed, and he kept driving his beat up pickup, and wearing threadbare shirts, and praying that the next movie would come along fast so that he could pay for another year’s tuition. 

And the fragile thing that was their relationship, that had him reading stories to her every night when their mother didn’t come home, that had Octavia asking him to learn a fancy braid, that made him look for job after job so he could buy her school supplies and a softball uniform...that shattered. He doesn’t think he can put it back together. 

Bellamy likes whiskey, though he doesn’t usually drink it to get plastered. Tonight that’s a good thing, because he has ¾ of a bottle of Macallan Scotch to get through--which should be more than enough to fuck him up into oblivion.

Three hours later when Clarke knocks quietly on the front door he’s half passed out across the sofa, legs and arms everywhere, the whiskey glass full of melted ice and his head finally cooling off. 

He can barely see the text when it buzzes with a threat from Clarke to open the door or else, and it takes him another minute to peel himself from the couch and stagger to the door. 

A smarter, or less drunk, version of himself would have screamed danger as soon as he saw her face, but instead he slurs, “Whaddya want, Princess?” as she pushes past him into the condo. 

She takes a breath before whirling on him:

“I just spent hours comforting your sister. Hours! Allow me to remind you that I have only met the girl once before today, but you _abandoned_ her and left _me_ to pick up the pieces!”

“She didn’t want me there,” he leans against the counter, too drunk to hold himself upright for the argument.

Clarke is furious in an entirely new way. 

“She DID want you there! And you did exactly what she thought you would do! You ran away and expected someone else to take care of the problem!” She drives an accusatory finger into his shoulder. “And that someone was me and I don’t fucking appreciate it, Bellamy! Our friendship is still new and you had no right to put that on me!”

“You told me to get out!” It seems like a good point, floating around in a head that’s far too heavy in his shoulders.

“I meant for twenty minutes, while I calmed her down so you could talk to her! Not leave your devastated sister, AND ME, altogether, come home, and get wasted! She needed you to be the brother you swear you're trying to be. And I needed you to be the—the—“

“Boyfriend?” He smirks, pouring a bit more whiskey into his glass with a shaking hand as she inhales and her nostrils flare as if she might murder him. 

“Reasonably responsible human being? You left me alone at a house in a neighborhood I don’t know with two people who are barely acquaintances. Anyone could have been lurking around in the bushes after the party. Do you care for my safety so little?! Do you care for _me_ so little?!”

“You know that I care about you, Clarke! Just because I don’t want to stand around and listen to my sister tell her version of how mean and awful I am doesn’t mean I don’t care about you! I knew you’d be safe with them--and you could get a car--you’re making a huge deal out of nothing!”

The screech on her voice has Bellamy wondering about his neighbors when she explodes back: “Nothing?! Nothing?! I met your sister literally a week ago! And you fucking left me there with my arms around her as I tried to get her in a place where she could talk to YOU! Then I had to have the conversation with her that her big brother should have had! And then when she realized you’d fucking run away, I had to be the one to make excuses for you! We’ve known each other for a fucking month, you and I, and you just fucking threw me into a lion's den of family drama and bounced as if it was my job! And don’t you think your sister deserves your time and attention? No matter what she was saying--she’s pregnant and scared! She’s your sister, it’s your responsibility to be there for her!”

He hates her for being right; he loves her for caring so much.

She’s in his face, her cheeks red, hand on his chest, so, so angry, and Bellamy figures he has nothing to lose because Clarke is just another person he’s driven away with his idiocy, so he kisses her roughly. Once, twice, until she shoves him away with, “Bellamy, you’re fucking drunk.” 

“Not that drunk,” he whispers, his voice ragged.

“You’re drunk and I’m angry!” She pushes him away, but he comes closer again, pulling at her shirt.

“Please, Clarke, I need you.” Does he sound as wrecked as he feels?

She melts against him for just a breath, just a moment, accepting the urgent kiss he’s offering. 

Then she pushes him away again: “I don’t want this right now, Bellamy, I’m so pissed at you I could scream.”

He tucks away the _right now_ for later, and hopes to God that he’ll remember it when he wakes up in the morning as she stalks to the guest room and slams the door so hard the whole house shakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of abortion. Also, some drinking and drunken kissing.
> 
> Turns out that even my "understanding Clarke" has her limits, and Bellamy's pushing them. 
> 
> Also, Octavia and Bellamy remember their childhood so differently and that is so sad to me. I remember something so similar happening between me and my brother when he was a teenager (though not NEARLY as bad as this!) and that was kind of my inspiration. I've always identified with Canon!Bellamy and his struggles as the older sibling to protect and guide Canon!Octavia.
> 
> I actually really love Canon!Octavia, regardless of how bratty and selfish I've made her here. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are so appreciated. And thank you for reading! This is my first multi-chapter fic and I hope it's chugging along smoothly for my darling readers.


	9. Going to Have to Think About the Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oof.
> 
> In which tempers flare...again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Physical abuse, past and present, is part of this chapter. It will be mentioned from here on out during the story, though no abuse will happen after this chapter.

Bellamy’s head is thumping when Clarke sits on the bed in the morning, bringing with her the scent of expensive shampoo and the floral perfume he associates with their dates. He’s not sure why she’s there at first; his last memory has them agreeing to go to her place after the party, but then-- _shit_ \--it all comes rushing back in a hurry and he groans into the pillow as she reminds him:

“Yup, that happened.”

He can’t read her voice, risks opening one eye to look at her face. 

She doesn’t look happy, twining the duvet between her fingers, mouth set, but she’s wearing the blue dress with tiny birds they set aside for their debut and she says, “Get up, Bellamy. We have to show everyone we’re falling in love, or whatever, especially after last night.”

_Or whatever_. Ouch. Maybe he isn't cut out for playing pretend lovers. Maybe he needs a break. 

Maybe Raven will kill him if he screws this up.

“What are you talking about? No one was even here for our fight.” He’s mumbling into the pillow, but she seems to hear him just fine. 

“Anya saw you leave the party without me. In fact, she was camped out in the kitchen when I had to call an Uber because you’d fucking...abandoned me there. She’s probably told everyone she knows by now. Not to mention your neighbors probably heard us yelling. Hell, The Valley probably heard us yelling.” 

“Heard _you_ yelling,” he corrects sourly, and then wishes he hadn’t. He buries his dark curls in the pillow again, thinks about all the situations he's gotten himself into that Raven's managed, that she's forgiven him for.  
"I don't feel great," he tells Clarke, "I have a hangover, I just want to sleep."

With all of the times he’s been snarky, or testy, or downright rude to Clarke, only for her to immediately understand and defuse the situation, he expects that from her now.

He doesn’t get it. She stands up in a rush, throwing clothes at him, slamming a bottle of aspirin onto his bedside, there's no softness or kindness to her. 

“Get the fuck up,” now _she_ sounds like Raven. “We have work to do.”

Oh, for fuck's sake. He sits, up, reaches for her, says, “Clarke, you know I don’t consider you work--” but she’s already leaving and doesn’t look back. 

Yesterday he could have sworn she didn’t consider him work, either. 

Yesterday he let himself think--

Bellamy drags himself from the blankets, puts on clothes that feel scratchy and unfamiliar on his skin. It's like being on Day 2 of the flu, when everything is awful, and even your skin hurts. Tying his shoes is like a puzzle without enough pieces, brushing his teeth activates his gag reflex and he has to fight not to throw up.

Harper’s criss-cross-applesauce on the living room floor with her laptop, and Clarke’s next to her with a face like thunder as she pokes into her phone. Harper’s brought Clarke an iced coffee, and he says a quiet prayer that it’ll improve her mood.

The two women are having a hushed conversation and as much as he wants to hear what they’re talking about, he knows being caught eavesdropping will only make Clarke angrier, so he clears his throat when he steps forward, squeezing Harper’s shoulder with a, “Morning, McIntyre.”

She pats his hand distractedly, “It’s 1PM. Smoothie in the fridge.” 

“What’s the plan?” He asks Clarke as he heads to the kitchen.

“Charlotte’s birthday’s in two weeks. There’s a shop at The Grove I need to hit up for her present, and there’ll be all kinds of people there, so if you can hold your shit together for a little while I figured you can accompany me.” Her tone is cold as ice, more than a little condescending, and if she wants to fight again, that's fine, they can fight again, so he sneers: 

“You’re not going to get her a Piaget watch?” and Harper warns,

“Bellamy--” 

“Stay out of this--” He snaps at her.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Clarke’s up in an instant, and he only barely pauses, a flash of knowing that he owes her an apology that he throws to the back of his mind with all the rest of the shit he’s repressing before he snarls:

“Don’t you dare tell me how to deal with people who work for me!!”

He regrets it immediately when he sees Harper’s hurt expression, and he knows Clarke sees it too, because she is seething when she pushes him:

“Just another example of you not knowing how to deal with people like they’re human beings--like you’re a human being! I tried to make excuses for you, Bellamy, but you need to get your shit together! You were just torturing yourself, but now you’re torturing other people, and I’m not going to fucking put up with that!”

Harper’s half out the door when he turns and he can’t force himself to apologize in time to catch her, and instead he hurls the smoothie she brought him across the kitchen like he's on the pitcher's mound. As it smears and runs down the wall Clarke bursts into a brittle laugh. 

“You need therapy, Bellamy Blake, but I don’t have time for that today. I’m flying to Georgia for a small role literally tomorrow, and I have to get this present today. This is going to be our last chance for two weeks to look like we made up after last night’s bullshit. So wipe that mess off the wall and get in the fucking Rover before I lose my goddamn temper with you.”

Bellamy thinks, _this isn’t you losing your temper_?

He bites back a retort about having a cleaning service and cleans up green goo with his teeth grinding. This is the first he’s hearing of Clarke’s role, or her leaving for two weeks. Maybe he’s an idiot, but he thought she would tell him something like that. 

Well, there’s no _maybe_ about him being an idiot after last night and this morning’s shenanigans, but hell, in for a penny, in for a pound, he's not backing down right now.

As if reading his mind, she says in a softer tone, “I just found out this morning, about Georgia. I guess the original girl is sick and not famous enough to warrant pushing back filming.” 

He doesn’t answer.

A cold silence fills the car on their way to The Grove, and Bellamy lets it envelop him. He’s simmering, Clarke’s words playing over and over in his brain:

_How to treat people like human beings--_

_Do you care for me so little--_

_Your sister, and you have a responsibility to be there for for her--_

_Don’t you dare--_

_This isn’t what I want--_

The door slams and Clarke turns to him with sunglasses on and a relaxed, sweet smile on her lips. “Get out of the car, Bellamy, and put a smile on your handsome face.”

Why does handsome sound like an insult?

If he’d apologize, this day would be a lot easier, so he takes a breath, but she puts a finger over his lips. 

“You think if you apologize everything will be fine, right? I don’t need your apology, Bellamy. You’re not sorry for what you said and did. You’re only sorry for the consequences. That’s bullshit.” Her tone is light, her words brutal, and Bellamy closes his eyes for just a second before offering her his hand. 

Clarke might be a better actress than he is, but he’ll be damned if he lets her know that.

She slides on sunglasses and tells him briskly, “Kane and my mom don’t want Charlotte receiving exorbitant presents from me. When they got married, I gave her a teacup from Etsy, and now she has a collection.”

That’s...kind of sweet, damn her.

“There’s a place here that has a bunch of really pretty crystal, and china. I have an appointment at 2:30 and then I guess we’ll kind of stroll around and shop a little?”

Right, shop. Stroll. Make light conversation. Look like lovebirds.

He could have done it yesterday, before the party, no problem. In fact, normally when he’s with Clarke, acting like lovebirds feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

Maybe that’s why being at odds with her makes him a little sick, and when he follows her into Verve Coffee Inc and she orders him a Gibraltar and herself a Missile, he tries to give her a real smile after his first sip. 

“This is fucking delicious.”

One side of her mouth goes up, and it’s strained, like it’s against her will. “I kinda love this place.” Pause, an admission: “I’ve been excited about bringing you here.”

“Well, I really like it, so thank you.”

It’s nothing, really, a stilted exchange, but her palm feels more relaxed against his when they walk back into the sunshine and into what could only be a trap.

Bellamy doesn’t recognize the other man at first, when the guy accosts Clarke with a hug that happens so fast she can’t escape it. 

“Clarke Griffin!” The other man says with a smile he clearly thinks is endearing. “I haven’t seen you in ages, God, you look amazing.”

Clarke’s not acting anymore. Her hand’s been yanked out of Bellamy’s, and her entire body is rigid. The smile that’s plastered to her face is fake. If Bellamy didn’t know better--

Actually, he doesn't know better at all.

He’s pretty sure she’s terrified. 

“Finn,” she says, trying to pull her arm away subtly. “How nice to see you.”

Finn clearly has no intention of letting her arm go. His fingers clamp down as he speaks. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, I think. That’s so rude, but I’ll forgive you if you promise to go to dinner with me tonight.”

“I’m so sorry, but I have plans tonight,” she moves her head in Bellamy’s direction. “This is Bellamy Blake. We’re dating. Uh. Seriously, and we're busy tonight.”

Finn rakes bored eyes across Bellamy, dismisses him. “Surely Bellamy--Bellamy? Won’t mind if you have a casual dinner with an old flame,” Finn coughs, thinks he's slick and good looking and important, “I mean, friend.”

He’s still gripping Clarke’s arms so tightly his knuckles are growing white, and she makes a pained little noise in her throat. Bellamy moves forward with a white hot rage in his chest to clap a hand on Finn’s shoulder and dig his thumb into the pressure point near Finn’s collarbone.

With a smile that shows his canines and not much else, Bellamy leans close to Finn.

“If you don’t take your hands off of her right now, I’m going to hurt you. Understand?”

Finn laughs--he _laughs_ \--and Bellamy thinks about how satisfying it would be to bury his fist in this man’s face. “People are watching, Bellamy, and all Clarke cares about is her precious reputation. She won’t be pleased if you...cause a ruckus.” He yanks on Clarke’s arm. “Maybe you should look happier to see me, Babe.”

Turns out it’s extremely satisfying to punch Finn Collins as hard as he can, and as Finn splutters Bellamy grabs his shirt, pulls him close, “If you ever touch her again, I will ruin _your_ reputation _and_ the nose job you’re gonna need now, you got that? Stay away from Clarke. Now tell security that you accidentally hurt yourself so my girl can finish her shopping.” 

It’s amazing how willing security is to ignore the fight Madewell employees watched with wide eyes. Clarke trembling next to him and the bruises already forming on her arms just above her elbows shows the real story to a female guard and she sends them off with a jerk of her chin. He’s breathless when he asks the manager at Madewell if they can use the restroom and, understanding that they need a moment alone, she escorts them to the back room. 

“Hey…” he turns Clarke’s face upward, and she has a mask on, her eyes blank.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she whispers. “Please, I don’t. Can we leave it?”

Bellamy examines her arms, up and down, brushes her hair back from her cheeks, pulls her into a hug that she eventually accepts, sagging against him. He thinks of what he would've been willing to do to Finn, right there with everyone watching, what Raven'll have to say tomorrow, the noise Clarke made in her throat and the way it physically hurt him, deep somewhere he didn't think he _could_ be hurt. 

“Yeah,” he says, when he’s established that she’s mostly alright. He lets her go. “We can leave it.”

Clarke shops Madewell like she always meant to, like she’s not saying thanks for temporary shelter and their silence, but every word she says is breakable, her selections made blindly. When Bellamy puts his arm around her and pushes the door open to go back outside, she takes one rattling breath, squares her shoulders, and faces the sunshine. 

“People are watching,” she echoes Finn.

“If they weren’t before, they sure as hell are now.” Bellamy’s got her bags in his hand and he pulls her shoulders close, securely under his arm, and ushers her away. 

They walk in silence for a bit and then--

“He used to hit me,” it’s so quiet he barely hears her, has to play the sounds of the words over again to catch them fully. “Not a lot. Just enough to put fear in me, I think. Enough to make me...compliant. I finally leveraged Kane to get away but every once in a while Finn decides that I’m his one and only and harasses me. So, thank you. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that for the next year or so.”

There's something in Bellamy that nearly breaks. He doesn't want her thanks. He wants her to feel safe, he wants her to feel that when she's with him, he's caring for her.

And when she's not with him, too.

He's not that guy, who can just say how he feels. Clarke always sees right through him and he's sure she sees that too. But after last night and this morning, he has to say _something_.

“Listen, I know that I...maybe I don’t have that much to offer you, emotionally, not the way you offer things to me. And I’m sorry I left you last night, and you felt like you weren’t safe. I see why that’s probably really fucking scary for you. So, I promise, even though I’m an idiot and my fame and my face are probably the best things about me, I will protect you. I won’t leave you like that again. So--you don’t have to be afraid of him. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Bellamy,” she puts her fingers on his chin, turns his face so he’s staring into her eyes. They’re not blank anymore, she's earnest, calm. “You sell yourself so short _all the time_. You have so much to offer besides your fame and your face. And I’m mad because I _know_ you are more than the person you were last night, or even this morning. Please don’t keep telling yourself that you’re the guy who lets his sister down, his friends down. I know you’re the one who holds them up, you just have to let yourself be that guy--be vulnerable enough to be that guy. _That_ is the best thing about you, _that_ is what you have to offer, that you’re more than someone like Finn, that you’re the person who wants to protect me, that you--” 

A teenage girl has an expensive camera pointed at them, and he lets that be the reason he interrupts her, his excuse for the searing kiss he plants on her lips. 

Even though that’s not the reason.

Not at all.

Not even a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grove is a fancy shopping center in LA, and Verve is a real coffee shop there. The names of the drinks are real--and they're super yummy too! 
> 
> I used to live in South Orange County, so my knowledge of LA is half from experience, half from google. (And bless google.)
> 
> Who was wondering if Finn was going to make an appearance? I didn't love, didn't hate Canon!Finn, but he makes such a good asshole ex, especially given his obsession with Clarke.
> 
> This chapter's title is from Anna Begins by the Counting Crows. It's an oldie but a goodie.
> 
> I know the chapters are a bit shorter now, but I'm trying to write and edit and get as many up as I can before I return to work on Tuesday! Trying to update daily. 
> 
> Next time: Raven returns!


	10. Wired and Phoned to a Heart of Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy and the women in his life have ~conversations.~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, there is just so much talking in this chapter. And! This chapter is a little longer than the past few, which I hope y'all don't mind.

Bellamy feels like a bull in a china shop in the most literal way possible. 

Clarke’s running deft fingers over the teacups a sales assistant has pulled for her, making tiny noises of appreciation for the delicate, intricately painted pieces. Bellamy can’t pretend to care and is mainly focusing on not breaking anything, feels like he’s not even breathing correctly in his attempts to be small enough. 

“Bellamy, can you wait outside? I’ll be right there.” 

It’s nicer than _you’re breathing down my neck, Bellamy, get out_ , but the implication is clear and he says, “yeah, actually, I uh...owe Octavia an apology present, so I’m going to go look at that jewelry pop-up across the way.”

Clarke tears her gaze away from a teacup with lavender flowers around the rim to meet his eyes and say, “You owe Octavia an apology, not an apology present.”

He shrugs, carefully not brushing the displays of expensive knickknacks. “She likes to get both.”

He's texted Octavia, in between Clarke trying on shoes at Nordstrom and walking to the shop to buy Charlotte’s gift, but she hasn’t written back. He’ll text her again later, and then try calling tomorrow. She needs time to cool off, he reasons, and he’ll give her that. Along with the funky necklace with tiny silver daggers, sharp enough to cut, that’s being wrapped when Clarke appears at his elbow.

“Which one did’ja get?” He asks, not really caring, but she only briefly responds:

“Blue flowers,” because she’s been distracted by the jewelry. Her fingers hover over another version of the dagger necklace and she grins at him, “Please tell me you got her something like this, it’s perfect." For someone who’s only met Octavia twice, Clarke’s got his sister pegged pretty well.

Saying goodbye to Clarke that night, knowing he won’t see her for two weeks, is unexpectedly difficult. After he helps her carry all her bags and packages in, she kicks off her shoes and hauls out a suitcase, and it seems like time for him to leave. But in the privacy of her bedroom, there’s no excuse for him to kiss her, no one watching or caring about their body language or the way they touch each other. 

So he runs his fingers through his hair and says, “Well, I’ll let you get to it. Text me while you’re there?”

She turns to him, looking a little sad. “I’ll miss you,” she tells him in a rush, standing on tiptoe to give him an unexpected hug. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, and try to make up with your sister. She needs you. And you need her.”

“I’ll miss you, too.” It’s the damn truth, and he squeezes her extra tightly, hoping she knows that. 

His reckoning from Raven comes not even a half an hour later. 

Bellamy pulls up to his condo to see Raven’s motorcycle sitting in a guest parking space, and feels a familiar pull of regret at having given her a key. She lets herself in like she lives there, even when he's home. 

Her helmet’s on the kitchen table, jacket thrown on the back of a chair, and he can see her slightly beyond it, on the balcony. She doesn’t turn when he joins her and they stand in companionable silence for a moment, staring into the water, before she opens with,

“I’ve heard the version of the story where you unexpectedly and viciously attacked an innocent Finn Collins in a jealous rage while he was merely speaking to his friend and ex girlfriend, Clarke Griffin.”

Something like a wicked cackle rises in Bellamy’s throat. “And you believe that?”

“Did you know I used to date Finn? We grew up together, actually.” Raven’s picking at chipped black nail polish, her voice casual. Too casual. “He left me because he thought his co-star was like, his destiny or something equally ridiculous. That co-star was Clarke. When she found out about our history together and how he just...dropped me, broke my heart, she was horrified, but she couldn’t get away from him. He had her--she was like a butterfly, pinned to a board, and he was trying to pull her wings off.”

Bellamy’s glad he didn’t laugh; there’s nothing funny about Raven’s story.

And he wishes he’d hit Finn again. And maybe again after that. And one more, on Raven’s behalf.

“So, no. I don’t believe that he was innocently talking to his friend, Clarke Griffin. She’s spent the past five years trying desperately to avoid him. She hates him, and she’s probably scared of him.”

Bellamy nods, puts his hand next to Raven’s, seeking her fingers. They don’t share physical affection often, at the most a cheek kiss or a hug on holidays, but she squeezes back. 

“He ambushed us outside, with everyone watching. Gave her a hug, but then he held onto her arms and wouldn’t let go. He was squeezing her hard enough to bruise, and she made this--whimper--I warned him, but he wouldn’t let her go. She wasn’t just scared, Raven, she was terrified.” And he's angry again, so furious, but he won't make Raven a target, and swallows it down.

“Yeah, that sounds more like Finn. Okay. Well, he was fucking embarrassed, and they’re not going to pursue anything legally because he wants this situation to disappear. And there are witnesses who say it was obvious that Clarke was uncomfortable and wanted him to let go, I’ve already spoken with them, so I haven't had to bill Wick at all this go-round. But Bellamy, can you try to solve problems with your words from now on? God, I thought Clarke would cool you off.”

“You didn’t say you knew her.” There’s curiosity in Bellamy’s voice. “You acted like you only knew her reputation. 

“It’s not like we’re besties. I just know she’s a decent person.”

“High praise, coming from you.”

“And what about you?” she challenges, turning to face him. “You’ve been spotted all over the place with Clarke since the day you met her--you’re spending way more time with her than you have to. Seems like it’s not exactly the ordeal you thought it’d be.”

“It’s good for us to establish our relationship now, when we’re not busy.”

That’s the same excuse he gave Harper last Tuesday, and Raven probably knows that. 

“You like her,” Raven asserts, her voice a little flat, a little disapproving. “You like her, you fucking idiot. You know this is for play, right? You know she’s acting? Because--she’s acting, Bellamy. That’s her job, when she’s with you.” 

“We’re friends, Raven. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you and Harper said would happen, and it happened. That’s all.” He tries to go back into the living room, but Raven grabs his arm, pulls him back. 

“Bellamy,” and she’s almost pleading, “Clarke is amazing, I know she is. But please, please don’t get too caught up in this. Maintain a professional distance in your heart, or you’re going to get hurt."

“I am,” he’s annoyed. “I am, I will.”

“Okay.” She accepts his words, seeming a little wary. “Okay, because you guys have amazing chemistry, and everyone’s talking about you. You’re far more interesting together than you are apart.”

“Thanks,” he says wryly. 

“Seriously!” She gestures to the table, and once again there are a half-dozen tabloid rags. This time, though, they’re covered in pictures of him and Clarke together, his bronze on her gold, there’s even a shot of them coming out of the Indian restaurant. He’d thought for sure no one saw them, and he hopes to high heaven that the owners are up to an influx of teenage girls wanting to eat where Clarke Griffin polished off enough food for two grown men.

But there’s a big, goofy smile on his face in that picture, and when he sees it he knows why Raven added a warning to their conversation today. That smile can’t be faked, that emotion is always real. 

He already knew, but having Raven point it out brings it home, makes it true:

He’s falling for Clarke, damn it, damn it, damn it.

And when Raven says goodbye with a calculating expression on her face, he’s sure other people know it, too.

Bellamy knows he owes Harper an apology, and having never had to apologize to her before for anything more serious than having to pick his drunk ass up from a club in the dead calm of the early morning, he isn't exactly sure how to go about it. He often buys her gifts or gives her bonuses when he's unusually cranky or makes her job harder than normal, but he's never accompanied them with excuses or apologies. 

So while it's not hard to pick out a pair of earrings made up of rose gold chains falling in a delicate waterfall that'll look amazing against Harper's honey blond hair, and it's not hard to shell out a slightly exorbitant amount of money to make reservations for her and Monty at an exclusive restaurant and pay for their dinner and drinks, it's a little harder to find prettier words than: _"I'm sorry I implied that you're just another employee instead of a lifelong friend."_

In the end he says exactly that. 

And Harper, who is sweet and forgiving and kind, replies, "I accept your apology. I know you were just mad, Bellamy. But it's not okay to hurt people when you're angry. I nearly quit that night."

All the times he's felt sorry for himself and told himself Harper was going to stop putting up with his bullshit and leave, he's never really, truly considered she felt that way. So hearing it now makes him queasy, and not because he'd be fucked without her running his life. (Though he would be.) 

"I'm so sorry, Harper, I swear, I'll never say anything like that again. I've always been lucky to have you at my back. I try to show you with gifts, but--"

"And you do give great gifts, Bellamy, but your friendship is a lot more important to me than any pair of earrings. When you act like I'm not the girl you sat next to on the first day of Third Grade, when you act like I didn't share my oatmeal cookies with you, I don't want earrings, I want out, because that hurts." And that's the most she's ever said about his outbursts and breakdowns, feels like she's been saving it up for years. She probably has.

_When you act like I didn't share my oatmeal cookies with you because you didn't have any food_ isn't what she says, but he doesn't need help with the subtext. Harper fed him half her sandwiches the entire year that year, and other years, too.

He wants to cry with shame, but he doesn't. At least, not then, not in front of her, because he doesn't want her to feel bad when he's the one in the wrong.

Clarke texts him on Sunday to say she got in safely. She texts him on Tuesday to tell him the costumes for the show are amazingly detailed. She texts him on Wednesday night to say they’re making her wear a wig and it’s the itchiest one she’s ever had, and Thursday morning to say the lead actress is unfairly beautiful. On Friday at lunch she breaks their fluffy-as-cotton-candy text streak to ask if he’s heard from Octavia, and before he tells her no he tries calling his sister again. 

Bellamy nearly drops the phone when Octavia picks up with a soft, hesitant, “Hey, Big Brother.” 

“Hey, O. How are you?”

“I just woke up,” she tells him, voice a little scratchy as she shifts in bed.

“Not like that, Octavia. How are you?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it. I’m okay, I’m fine.”

“Can I help--do you need anything from me?”

“I don’t know yet,” she pauses, he imagines her biting her bottom lip like she did when she was little. “Lincoln and I...we’re still deciding.”

“O, I’ll support you no matter what you decide, you know that, right?” He’s found a pen from somewhere, tapping it against the island. 

“That’s what Clarke said,” Octavia sounds distant. “She’s really great, Bell. And she cares about you so much.”

“I am so sorry I left that night,” the words burst from him, tripping over Octavia’s last sentence, “I just got overwhelmed and I was upset--I am upset--that you think I abandoned you when you went to boarding school. And I want to talk about that sometime, me and you, but I’m not making excuses. You needed me and I left, and I’m sorry, O.”

“She said that, too. That you were sorry.”

“Uh. Said that when?” He’s sharp, doesn’t mean to be, but can’t put the timeline together. 

“Monday. She texted me, you know, from set, to see how I was? Bellamy, I hope you’re hearing me when I say she’s great. You know I don’t approve of your girlfriends most of the time, but I like her a lot. Don’t fuck this up.”

_Monday_. This woman--no, now is not the time to decide whether or not he appreciates Clarke's interference.

“I know she’s great, but your romantic advice is the least of my concerns right now. You’re the one I’m worried about.” 

“I’m okay. Whatever I decide, I’m going to be okay. I know that now.” And her voice does have a band of steel underneath it. 

“O, I know you think that you’re not ready for motherhood because of Mom. But you’re not her. You can be--I know _you would be_ \--so much better than she was.”

“I’m tired, Bell. But...maybe, can we have coffee soon?” The tentative question seems innocent, but there’s so much behind it; he can’t remember the last time they sat down, just the two of them, without loud music or the cushion of friends and significant others, depending on only themselves and their sibling bond to create conversation, to have affection hang between them and feel familiar.

He loves her, but she's like a stranger, and he hates that. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

Short as the conversation was, he hangs up feeling like they’re in a better place than they’ve been in for years. 

Bellamy considers his next text to Clarke feeling a lot exposed and a little suspicious. Following up on Octavia’s situation isn’t part of her responsibilities as fake girlfriend. Of course, staying with Octavia and comforting her that night wasn’t part of them either, and in fact, she says and does a lot of things that are closer to real girlfriend than fake. But they could also be read as good friend, which Harper insisted they would be, and Clarke herself had said, “we’re going to be friends, Bellamy.”  
So they're friends. Alright. Okay.

**BB: Octavia’s okay. Still unsure about everything. I apologized and we’re going to hang out soon.**

Clarke doesn’t text back til nearly midnight.

**CG: Proud of you for saying sorry. She’s probably gonna make you grovel some more, though. Talked to her Mon and she was less freaked out, but a girl always needs her big brother, you know?**

She obviously doesn’t feel guilty about talking to Octavia, so she isn’t trying to do things behind his back--right?

**CG: Hey, I’m exhausted, but let’s have a phone date tomorrow? I’d like to hear your voice. Gotten kind of used to it over the past month and find myself missing it.**

And see, that kind of thing, that _right there_ , is exactly why Bellamy can’t quite take Raven’s warning too seriously, despite the fact that he should. 

He knew he missed Clarke, but he didn’t know she missed him too. And when you miss people, that means something, right? 

**BB: I’ve kinda gotten used to yours too, definitely missing it. Phone date, on your schedule.**

**CG: Good night, Bellamy. Gotta sleep. Talk soon.**

**BB: Good night, Princess. Sweet dreams.**

He sends the last before he thinks about it too hard. 

Bellamy’s not exactly thrilled when his phone rings at 5:30 the next morning. So not thrilled that he barks, “WHAT?” into the speaker without even opening his eyes, and gets a shock when Clarke’s perky voice responds, 

“Good morning, Bellamy.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, “what time is it?”

“5:30,” and again her voice is too cheerful to be believed, “you did say on my schedule.”

“I thought your schedule would be during normal human waking hours.” He doesn’t open his eyes. He refuses to open his eyes. If he doesn’t open his eyes, he’s not really awake, and if he’s not really awake, then this isn’t some ungodly hour, and he’s just dreaming, and he’ll go back to sleep when it’s over. 

“C’mon, you know how it is when you’re shooting. I’m in wardrobe at 6, and then makeup after that, so I thought I’d call you first.” He can just picture her, sitting in her pajamas, sucking down an iced coffee that some hapless PA had to get for her at 5AM.

No, actually he can’t picture her, because to picture her he’d have to be awake, and he’s not awake. Nope. He’s not. 

“...Bellamy?”

He sighs, a long, frustrated exhale.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry. I thought this would be funny, I’m an idiot. I’ll let you go back to sleep.”

His eyes fly open of their own accord and damn it, he’ll never get back to sleep now, but he sits up and probably sounds nearly hysterical when he insists, “No, Clarke! I’m awake, I’m here.”

She sounds a little too pleased: “Well, if you’re sure. So, fill me in, what’s going on in Blake-land?”

Bellamy leans back against the headboard. 

“Let’s see. Uh, Raven came by to chastise me about, you know, the Finn incident. Or at least, I thought that’s why she was here, but instead she admitted she used to date Finn, and I’ve gotta tell you, Clarke, I can’t believe neither of you mentioned that you share an ex.” 

Clarke barks an uncomfortable laugh. “When the ex is Finn, can you blame us for trying to keep him a secret?”

“I really can’t. Uh, on Tuesday I went to Troit, met a couple of friends, talked to Miller a little bit? He broke up with Bryan, so he was feeling kind of bummed.”

“Oh, wow. Bryan seemed so nice. But you never know what goes on behind closed doors with a couple. Is Miller dating anyone new yet?”

Bellamy frowns. “He joked about being a man-about-town, playing the free market, a bunch of shit like that, but he’s honestly not that type of person. He likes to settle down, be domestic.” 

Clarke makes a small noise like she’s stretching. He can hear her slurp at the last bit of what he’s fairly certain is her second iced coffee, and then she says, “When I come home, let’s have some people over. People we like. Miller, Monty, Harper, that crowd. Give Miller a little cheer-up.” 

“Yeah,” Bellamy agrees. “I’d like to do that.” 

“Okay. Fifteen more minutes. What else happened this week?”

“If there’s only fifteen more minutes, doesn’t that mean it’s your turn?”

Clarke makes that irritated _bzz_ sound he’s becoming familiar with, tells him: “Dude, absolutely nothing happened for me this week. I filmed. I watched other people film. I slept. I drank iced coffee. Craft services is nice, though, better than the last few shows I’ve been on. I’ve been eating so much junk, lately, too, so I’m vegan this week, and they have a big selection. Okay, back to you. That was Tuesday. Wednesday?”

“Vegan?” He squeaks, horrified. “That sounds awful.” 

“I don’t mind it. Lots of squash and salads, both of which I love. Stop putting me off. Wednesday?” God, she’s way too bossy for this early in the morning. 

“Wednesday I had a hangover,” he admits, embarrassed. “I don’t even know how late it was when I got up. But Harper had left me a huge stack of headshots to autograph. I need a fucking stamp for that, takes forever, so I signed until my hand cramped up, worked out and got the rest of the hangover fog cleared away, signed some more, watched a movie and fell asleep on the couch at ten because I’m nearly thirty and lame.” And he feels even _more_ lame, admitting it all to Clarke. She snorts a little, then giggles at her own snort. 

“You’re cute,” he tells her absently, then freezes. Apparently sleepy Bellamy will say anything, and shit, he rushes into Thursday’s events like maybe she didn’t hear, talking about evacuating the house because the cleaning service was coming, and how they’d cleaned the last of the detox smoothie from the wall, and she interrupts--

“Bellamy, I’m sorry, but I have to run. I don’t want to, but there’s a cowering PA who’ll get yelled at if I’m late. It was so good to talk to you. I’ll text you later. Go back to sleep.”

“Oh, wait, Clarke,” but she’s already hung up in a rush before he can figure out what he wanted her to wait for in the first place.

Half an hour ago, going back to sleep was his first priority, but now he’s laying in bed with the covers rumpled, wishing she’d called earlier, talked longer. 

The sun hasn’t even risen yet when he gives up on returning to dreamland and drags himself to the coffee pot. He takes a selfie of himself wearing his black-framed, nerdy glasses and holding the mug, adding, _Look what you did_ before he sends it. 

Clarke’s response is a string of heart emojis. 

It’s a small thing, but add it to how she dealt with Octavia, add it to her wanting to spend time with his friends, add it to her saying she misses him and add it to her waking up early to call him and--it means something, right? 

And Bellamy was wrong, he isn’t falling, he’s fallen.

And that means something too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piecing together Bellamy's past gives his present a whole new look, huh?
> 
> Also: Poor Raven. 
> 
> Also also: Harper finds her voice! She's so precious. We're going to be seeing a lot more of her in the future!
> 
> Title is from Semisonic, "Singing to Me in My Sleep." Yes, I am using songs from 1998, and you can't stop me! Also, that song is a definite bop. Feeling Strangely Fine is a great throwback album. 
> 
> Your comments and kudos mean so much to me! I love to hear what you think about the characters and the way the story is progressing and really, anything. <3


	11. The Future's Got Me Worried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke returns home.

Bellamy’s not counting down the days until Clarke gets home, nope.

Definitely doesn’t know it’s tomorrow, mm-mm.

When Harper watches him flip through the channels, back and forth, settling on nothing, hour after hour, he’s sure she doesn’t know the reason until she finally snaps, “Bellamy, get it together! You still have another 24 hours to go and you’re driving me up a wall.”

He blushes like a teenager, mumbling, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and Harper gives him the kind of eyeroll he hasn’t seen since junior year. 

“Don’t play dumb. You know and _I know_ Clarke’s coming back tomorrow, and you’ve missed her a lot, I get that. But you’re playing my last nerve like it’s a violin. Please, please, go out and do something tonight.”

“Why don’t you go work from home?” Bellamy grumbles, “then I won’t be driving you insane and I can suffer in peace.” Okay, that last part’s a little dramatic, but he’s an actor, after all. 

“I don’t take work home. You know that.” 

“Then why don’t I give you the afternoon off?”

“Because I’m busy, Bellamy! I know it’s hard for you to imagine, but I actually have a lot of work to do, pretty much every day.”

She does look harassed and stressed, a pen stuck behind each ear, her third mug of coffee growing cold as she rattles away at the laptop even while yelling at him. 

“Well, when will you go home, then?”

Harper looks up at him, and it’s positively deadly. “When I’m finished!” 

There’s a TV in his bedroom, though it’s not as big, but he can feel pitiful and antsy in there. If he doesn’t, Harper might bash him in the head with her coffee mug.

“I’m going to the bedroom,” he sniffs, and without looking up again Harper replies,

“Bellamy, if you don’t get out of this house, I’m going to fucking murder you.”

And that’s how he finds himself at a random bar at 7 on a Saturday, drinking scotch, feeling at odds and ends, when John Murphy sits down next to him and smirks,

“Missing your fake girlfriend?”

“Kinda,” Bellamy admits morosely, swishing the glass. 

“I miss someone, too,” Murphy squints at his beer, appears to find it wanting, but clinks it against Bellamy’s scotch anyway. “Cheers to being miserable fucks together.” 

He’s quiet for awhile, but it’s comfortable enough, until Murphy clears his throat to ask, “So, you’re falling for Clarke like an idiot, aren’t you?”

“Fuck me,” Bellamy chokes on his drink, “does everyone know?! Am I wearing a sign that says, hello, I was supposed to be acting like I’m in love with Clarke Griffin, but I thought I’d make my life hard and actually fall in love with her instead?”

“To the rest of the world, you’re wearing a sign that says, _hello, I’m falling in love with Clarke Griffin_. To me, or anyone who knows the truth, you’re wearing a sign that says you’re an idiot.”

“How do you know? Maybe I’m just a really good actor.” Bellamy gestures at the bartender for another. “Maybe you’re talking to a future Oscar winner.”

“I mean, maybe,” Murphy smiles, it’s wolfish, predatory. “Maybe, yeah, but it won’t be for this role.”

“It’s just that she’s kind of amazing,” Bellamy blurts. “She gives me shit when I deserve it and she listens to me when I need it and she’s beautiful, like so beautiful, I mean, her eyes--”

“Man, you don’t have to convince me. I’ve met the woman. She’s been my best friend since I was eight years old. And she drives me nuts, she’s not perfect, but I know that she’s the kind of person a man could fall in love with easily. Or a woman. Anyone could fall in love with her.” 

“Not me,” Bellamy protests, “I don’t fall in love with people, not even perfect, amazing people, not even Gina with the curly hair, not Echo the supermodel, not Roma from senior year who wrote poetry for me...” He drowns his drink, asks for another, ignores the slightly concerned look on Murphy’s face. “Even my sister likes her. My sister hates everyone,” he laughs a little, “maybe even me, jury’s currently out.”

Murphy’s mouth seems forever twisted at the corners, repressing a smile or a frown, whatever emotions he’s currently figuring out, and Bellamy has no idea at all what the other man is feeling when he finally speaks.

“I’m not a therapist, Blake.”

“I know, we barely know each other. I’m just the idiot who fell in love with your best friend.”

“Yeah, well. She’s worth falling in love with. The question is, are you? Because, Bellamy--you need to be.”

Bellamy’s blackout drunk before he stops thinking about the implication of that final statement.

He doesn’t remember Murphy leaving, or Harper showing up with Miller in tow to drag him home. There’s a reminder when he finally peels his eyes open the next day--a polaroid picture of Miller and Harper giving peace signs with Bellamy passed out atop the duvet with his shoes still on. Ugh, why did he buy that polaroid camera, again? Someone’s moving around the condo, but Harper’s pinned a note to his nightstand that says, _Taking the day off, xoxo._

When the cupboard slams, and Clarke squeaks, “Oh my god, sorry!” he closes his eyes and wishes he was dead for more reasons than one.

At least he smells coffee. 

He might puke first, though, and he bolts for the bathroom as the floor tilts up towards him. 

Clarke’s face is less sympathetic than it could be. She’s biting the inside of her cheek to keep a laugh in, but she hands him the mug without comment. 

He takes a giant sip before he can even consider telling her welcome home. 

She smiles, ruffles his hair. He lets himself believe she’s going to say something nice but instead: “Even I don’t puke because of hangovers, Bellamy. Christ. What a rookie move.”

“Oh, fuck you,” he groans. “And fuck this coffee, I’m going back to bed.”

“You should take a shower first,” she calls after his retreating back, “you smell like a brewery.”

And she does have a point, really, so he turns the shower up as hot as he can handle and stands in the stream for as long as humanly possible. 

He emerges in his favorite flannel PJ pants to find Clarke on his bed with her legs folded underneath her, a book open in her lap, glasses falling down to the tip of her nose. 

Bellamy can’t help but think she looks really good there. Like she belongs. 

“Not that I’m not happy to see you, because I am, but what’re you doing here?”

“Murphy said you told him you miss me. I missed you too, and thought you might want to hang out. I don’t have plans today, came over and found you all,” she makes a face, “you know, stinky and hungover. But that doesn’t mean we can’t spend time together. At least, now we can. You really needed that shower.”

“Murphy’s a damn snitch,” he grumbles, flopping back on the bed. “I’ve just...gotten used to you.”

“Well,” Clarke huffs, looking back down at her book, “so glad you’ve learned to tolerate me. Should I go home so you can sleep it off?”

“No,” he crawls onto the bed, drops his head into Clarke’s lap. “No, stay. Tell me about your trip.”

“Then you’ll really fall back asleep.” 

“I’m going to fall back asleep either way.”

Clarke sighs, runs her fingers through his hair. “This isn’t really what I had in mind when I came over.”

“What did you have in mind?” Bellamy waggles his eyebrows at her, up and down, and, oh shit--he might still be drunk. A blush colors her cheeks pink and she says, 

“Bellamy!” While slapping at his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he buries his matching blush in her leg. “I think I’m still drunk.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ an excuse,” she doesn’t take her hand away, though, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

They’re quiet, for a bit, and he starts to drift away. At some point she says, “Scootch, Bellamy, my leg’s falling asleep,” and he sleepily moves. Her warmth doesn’t go anywhere, though, so he’s dreaming again in a heartbeat. It’s not exactly a shock when he wakes up in the late afternoon with her napping, too, curled up under his arm like a kitten, but it’s new, and he lets himself have a moment to just...be. With her, and no expectations. Not even their own.

He’s almost sorry when she opens her eyes.

“Oh, God,” she says, pushing away from him to sit up, “sorry, I have no concept of personal space when I’m sleeping. Just ask Murphy, I’ve drooled all over him on more than one occasion.”

“No problem,” Bellamy pats his shirt, shows her that it’s dry, “no drool today.”

“That was the best nap I’ve had in ages,” she tells him as she crawls out of the bed. “But it’s fucking 3PM and I came to ask you if you want to come to a party at my place tonight.”

“You just got home!”

“It wasn’t hard, I sent a group text, had Niylah pick up beer, tortilla chips and guacamole. The essentials” 

He gives her a look, tries to figure out if she’s joking. 

“What?” she asks, sliding on her shoes. “It’s casual.”

“So was Octavia’s, and you saw her place…”

“Yeah, I did,” she replies, and there’s something irritated in her voice. The casual comfort disappears from the room. “I definitely did.”

The unspoken criticism of his sister rankles, and he snaps, “what, did you think it was gauche or something?”

“No,” and he thinks the O is round and snobby, like her nose is straight in the air.

“God, Clarke, not everyone can come from ten generations of money--”

“Oh, shut up, Bellamy, it isn’t about money all the time!”

“Then what is it about?”

“It’s about you buying your sister a house that’s ten times the size of your own! You living in a condo with two bedrooms when she’s got a mansion with five! She didn’t do anything to earn that, Bellamy, you did!”

“What the fuck, Clarke, you’re the one always giving me speeches about being there for my sister?!”

“Being there for her is not buying her an extravagant house she doesn’t need! Your priorities when it comes to Octavia are so fucked up!”

“Clarke, I need you to stop telling me what to do regarding Octavia, or this is never going to work.” 

She backs down nearly immediately, but her expression is hurt. They’re standing on either side of the bed with balled up fists and hunched shoulders, Clarke’s chin up and proud.

“Bellamy, I’m not trying to be bossy, but--”

“--But it comes naturally?” He suggests, trying to win a smile from her pursed lips. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “But I feel protective of you. And Octavia, too, but what she needs from you isn’t money. Or at least not that much money. She needs support and love and boundaries, not lavish gifts or giant allowances. I know she’s not a child, but you’re just...giving her everything. What’s going to happen when you have serious romantic relationships, or you want to get married? Or if you need that money and you can’t give it to her?”

It’s his turn to be the one to defuse the fight, his turn to close the distance between them. Bellamy crawls across the bed, takes Clarke’s hand. 

“I appreciate so much that you care about my relationship with my sister. I do. But there’s years upon years of history there that you can’t understand within a month of knowing us. I know she doesn’t need that goddamn house...but...I didn’t have the heart to tell her no when she found it. Soon enough she’ll lose interest in it and want something new, and I’ll convince her to go with something that suits her more.” He lets out a breath, “I don’t want to argue about this, please. I’m stupidly happy to have you in the same city again.”

Now Clarke does smile: “You just want an excuse to go in search of iced coffee again.” 

“It’s kind of our thing, Princess.”

She leans into him, a wordless apology, and with her chest to his it feels like the right time to kiss her lips and--

No, it’s not. No one’s watching, he’s not drunk, there are no excuses and if he kisses her, he might fuck everything up. 

So he brushes her forehead with a light kiss, instead, and clambers off the bed to find some clothes. 

Clarke’s party is so much closer to the definition of casual hangout than Octavia’s was. When Bellamy arrives Harper and Maya are in the kitchen opening beers, Monty and Jasper are shoveling queso and chips in their mouths (some things, Bellamy thinks, never change) and Miller is deep in conversation with a slim man with large dark eyes. 

Half the crowd thinks their relationship is real, half doesn’t, and that’s enough reason to walk up behind Clarke and slide his arms around her waist, even though it makes Murphy sneer. Calls of _oooh lovebirds_ greet him and he gives them his middle middle finger absently. Seeing Murphy’s face brings a hazy memory, and a question:

Am I worth falling in love with?

And the answer he’d come up with last night was no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: lights! camera! action! (Okay, maybe just the action. We're getting to the meat of the story, no more fluff and napping together like cutie patooties.) (Even though they ARE cutie patooties!)
> 
> God, Bellamy drinks a lot. Unhealthy coping mechanisms much?
> 
> Clarke pretended like she wasn't frustrated with Octavia for like two whole weeks! Aren't you proud of her? So Clarke-like, to be annoyed with BOTH of the incredible, terrible Blakes, each for different reasons that totally intersect.
> 
> This week's title is from "Nothing Gets Crossed Out" by Bright Eyes.
> 
> As always, reading your comments gives me LIFE and I so appreciate your feedback.


	12. We Won't Share the Wish We Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raven calls with some news, everyone has a hangover, and I admit that the fluff in this fic is getting away from me but I CAN'T HELP IT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who was googling how Oscar nominations work at 6:23PM on a workday? Not I, said the little red hen.

For what is starting to feel like the hundredth day in a row, Bellamy wakes up hungover. He’s not in his bed, though, or Clarke’s guest bed. (which might be more comfy than his, though he’d never admit it) Instead, he has to peel himself off of Clarke’s ridiculously small tufted _chaise longue_ (a ridiculous piece of furniture, if he’s told her once, he’s told her a thousand times) and what the hell is he doing here, with his legs and arms hanging over the edge?

In getting off, he steps on Jasper, and that answers that question. He’s somehow brought his high school party to Clarke, and everyone is everywhere, sleeping in chairs and on rugs, though Miller and Jackson (my good friend, Dr. Eric Jackson, Clarke had introduced him, but she might as well have screamed _I’m hooking him up with Miller_ ) seem to have disappeared. 

Miller and Jackson are asleep in the downstairs guest room--he finds them when he tries to enter the room and curl up in those comfy, comfy blankets.

Next he finds Clarke and Murphy passed out in her room. She’s got mascara and eyeshadow around her eyes like a panda, Murphy is face down in a pillow with his clothes still on, so no worries there. Bellamy knows there are more guest rooms up here, but if he remembers anything about partying with the delinquents, they probably couldn’t make it up the fucking stairs. He checks his watch--7AM--definitely too early to get up, starts opening doors to find another bed. 

The first room is definitely Charlotte’s, and it reminds him of Kane’s house. Tasteful, modern, with homey touches. Lots of pictures of her with Clarke. He can’t imagine sleeping in this bed, with its polka dot purple duvet, and neither Charlotte nor Clarke would appreciate it. So, another door, and here’s his prize: a bland guest room, and God bless Clarke, this bed’s nearly as comfortable as the other.

Before he passes out, he takes a second to wonder: Does Murphy sleep in her bed a lot?

He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want the answer to that question.

The Clarke who wakes him up with a cinnamon roll is cranky. It says a lot about her that even when she’s in a terrible mood, she still comes bearing gifts, but there’s a stormcloud on her face when she offers the plate. 

After he takes it, she flops down on the bed and sighs, her arm flopped over her eyes. “I’m so pissed at you,” she groans, “you didn’t warn me about Monty’s moonshine.”

“You said you could handle your liquor!”

“I meant NORMAL LIQUOR! And I was already drunk when he pulled it out!” 

“Yeah, you kind of have to be drunk to try it,” Bellamy tears off a piece of cinnamon roll. “It actually tastes a lot better than it used to. He and Jasper have been tinkering with the recipe since high school.”

“It was blueberry,” Clarke recalls, a whine in her voice, “I’m never eating blueberries again. In fact, if I even see a blueberry again, like, ever, it’ll be too soon.”

“And they’re making cherry next! I’m not gonna lie, kind of excited about that.”

Clarke shudders. 

“What the matter, Griffin? Can’t hang?” He pokes at the exposed skin just above her waistband, and she slaps his hand away, fighting a smile. 

“I’ll have you know that every single one of you heathens were sawing logs long before Murphy and I gave up the ghost.”

“Paying for it now, though, aren’cha?”

She rolls over and buries her face in his hip, her next words are muffled: “I think I remember you saying that you need to call Raven. She sent you a bunch of texts last night.”

Bellamy sent Raven a stream of nonsensical texts and pictures, different people making faces and a short video of a very, very drunk Clarke saying, “Raven! You should be here, definitely, definitely be here. I’m inviting you next time. You never have any fun and you deserve so! much! fun!” She gives a little hop to accentuate each of the last three words. He lets himself grin a little over last night, which was definitely the most fun he’s had in ages. Drunk Clarke, who spent the whole night smiling like her cheeks might crack, is one of his favorite Clarkes.

Raven’s quietly exultant when she answers: “Are you with Clarke? Put me on speaker,” so he does, “remember how I said you two are far more interesting together than you are apart? I just heard through the rumor mill that Cartier is interested in the two of you for an ad campaign. They’re planning to do some mythology bullshit, Hades and Persephone, and they love the way you two look together, all contrasted, dark and pale.”

“But Cartier...they usually use big names.” Clarke’s got a look on her face like she doesn’t dare to hope.

“Having a big name doesn’t do a lot of good if it’s not the look you want. And I mean, having two smaller stars instead of one bigger star works just fine, in my opinion. And it’s not like you’re not recognizable. It’s a your-people-call-my-people situation so like, you’ll be hearing from Kane about it, not me.”

“Okay,” Bellamy feels more enthusiastic than okay, but Clarke’s got something weird going on behind her eyes, and he wants to talk to her about it before he gets all hyped. “Anything else?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Something a little more exciting, but a lot more nebulous. You know that mild Oscar buzz about _Wake Me Up_?”

Now _here_ is something to be enthusiastic about. _Wake Me Up_ was a dream role for a B-lister: serious, emotional, raw. The part wasn’t huge, but he got to work off of some big names and every day felt like the best day of his life. When it was over, he spiraled into a ridiculous depression...he never knew that kind of high existed with acting. He’d always enjoyed it, even felt pretty lucky to be living his life and making this kind of money doing something he didn’t despise--but _Wake Me Up_ was something different. _Art_. 

“Mmmhmm?” He plucks at the comforter, Clarke jittery next to him, scooting closer on her knees, face alight.

“Seems like it might be a little more than buzz. You know the Oscars were postponed this year--noms go out soon. There’s a chance _Wake Me Up_ might get one. Well, a little better than a chance, I think, and Bellamy, it’s only the best role you’ve ever had. Imagine if you got to say you were in an Oscar-nominated film, or, holy shit, an Oscar winner?”

The skepticism Clarke was wearing for the Cartier campaign is 100% gone; she’s got a smile like sunshine on her lips and she clasps his free hand. 

“Shit, am I still on speaker? That was supposed to be a top-secret tip,” but her voice is laden with sarcasm. Clarke is someone who’ll be happy for him, only him, and Raven knows it. “Anyway, that’s the hot gossip this morning. Talk soon.”

“Uh, holy shit,” Murphy says from the doorway. “That’s awesome, Blake, hope it works out.” He looks a little rough, shirt wrinkled, in his stocking feet. There’s a pillow crease in his cheek. “Couple questions: What the fuck was in that shit Monty brought? Why was it blue? Why does my mouth taste like paint thinner?”

“Well, Monty’s downstairs staring at a cinnamon roll like it killed his mother, you can go ask him, if you want.” Clarke’s glance is pointed: _Get out_. “There’s coffee in the kitchen. Poor Niylah’s got a killer hangover, she’s in Charlotte’s room praying for God to take her, so no iced coffee run for her this morning.”

“You drank hot coffee?” Bellamy asks, raising his eyebrow.

“God, no. On a hungover stomach? I had a can of iced coffee from that specialty place down the street. But I’m not telling Murphy that, he’ll want one, too.”

“I heard that!” Murphy yells from down the hall. 

“Bellamy!” Clarke squeaks, “this is amazing! If Raven’s hearing buzz, that’s a great sign. It could be a sleeper.”

Bellamy’s trying desperately to keep a grin from spreading over his face. He’s not going to get excited about this. He’s NOT. 

“They’re gonna be announced on the...25th, I think? I’ll stay at yours that night. Uh, maybe, hold on.” The calendar on Clarke’s phone is a lot fuller than his, it seems. “Shit, that’s Charlotte’s birthday party. She’s turning 16, it’s a whole thing. You’ll be my date, right? Anyway. We can stay in the pool house that night and stay up to watch the airing.” She’s so assured: you’ll be my date. We’ll stay in the pool house. We’ll watch it together. We. We. We. 

When he’s with Clarke, being a we is the best thing in the world. 

“Yeah, okay, that’s great.”

“I meant to tell you about it anyway. You’ll need a tux. And you know how Mom and Kane feel about exorbitant presents, but it is a sweet sixteen so you can probably push it a little bit if you really want to.”

Bellamy pulls at his collar. “The first thing I ever said to her was that she smelled like a horse. I feel like I have a little making up to do. Listen, you were making some real faces when we were talking about Cartier. You seemed excited, at first, but then--do you not want to do it?”

“I don’t ever want to be the person who takes an opportunity away from you. I’m supposed to be helping you get them, but…” 

“C’mon, out with it.”

“You know I’m a control freak, right?”

Bellamy bites a lip to keep from laughing out loud, nods at her. 

“I always like to maintain a certain amount of control over my roles and projects. When you do an ad campaign there's no control, you’re just a glorified model. You do what they want, because you're representing their vision and their aesthetic. Your job is to sit there and look pretty. And for Cartier, who mainly sell jewelry and perfume, sometimes the models are wearing practically nothing. I’m not prudish, but I have no desire to sit around naked and shivering, wearing nothing but rings in front of a hundred people for hours, all in the hopes that the resulting photos will make people think I look more adult.” 

“I don’t want to push your boundaries, Clarke, but I think it’d be better for you to bring your concerns to the right people instead of just deciding outright not to do it. And like...this is something we can only do together. The opportunity is for both of us as a team. Apparently people think we look pretty together or some such nonsense.” 

“You make it easy for me to look good,” Clarke tells him, touching the dimple in his chin. “I’ll consider the project if they bring it to us. Maybe I can ask for sketches or mock-ups or what they’re thinking about…I know you’ve got a nerd-boner going for the Hades and Persephone theme.”

“I don’t want you to do something you’re not excited about, just for me.”

“Well, I don’t want you to not do something you’re excited about because of me, so we’re kind of at an impasse. We might as well not worry about it right now--they haven’t even asked us.”

Bellamy traces his finger down Clarke’s hand, over her wrist and down her thumb. “I like when we’re us,” and it’s impossibly romantic, he shouldn’t have said it, but to his shock Clarke replies easily,

“Me too.”

He puts that away for safekeeping, flops back down on the pillow. Clarke follows suit, and Bellamy could have sworn she was reaching out to take his hand when Murphy collapses atop them, head hitting Bellamy’s abs, legs over Clarke’s legs. All three give a strained _oof_. 

“Hey, Jasper’s on the floor of your downstairs bathroom. His girlfriend left him for dead, I think. She said she had work.”

“Uh, don’t look at me.” Clarke raises her hands, “You both know him better than I do.”

“I’ve only known him a couple of years, so I think this one’s on Bellamy.”

“Jasper’s an adult, I’m staying here.” Bellamy shifts to get more comfortable in order to underline his point.

“Jasper’s a lot of things, but I’m not sure that adult is one of them. And I do have to wonder what all of you fully-thirty-year-olds are doing partying this hard. Isn’t it time to get married, have babies, that kind of shit normal people do? Clarke and I haven’t even had our quarter life crisis yet, we’re supposed to get drunk and be irresponsible--what's your excuse?”

Bellamy shrugs. “This isn’t something we normally do as a group, but it’s pretty much exactly like every Friday and Saturday I ever had in high school. I don’t know about them, but I’m not ready to commit to marriage and babies.”

Clarke’s gone still next to him, he hastens to amend, “I just mean, not yet. In a couple more years. I don’t know what Harper and Monty’s excuse is--they didn’t get together until college, but it’s been years now, and I keep thinking they’ll get engaged, but they never do.”

Murphy’s got a self-satisfied smirk on one side of his mouth, and Bellamy doesn’t even want to know what it’s all about when Murphy starts on a new train of thought. “So when you do settle down, are you thinking like, five kids?”

The peal of laughter from Clarke’s throat is ringing through the entire room, she’s half lifted from the bed she’s giggling so hard. “Can you imagine Bellamy as a stressed-out dad, all harried, trying to get the youngest to eat mashed peas while the older one colors on the wall?”

“Wait wait wait!” Bellamy protests, “Where’s the mom in this scenario?!”

“Um, working. She’s a boss ass bitch, obviously.”

“So she gets to continue her amazing career while I sit at home covered in peas?!”

Their voices run over each other:

“There are a lot of men who are very happy to have their wives as the sole provider--”

“Well, I’m not letting _my_ wife--”

“ _Letting her_?!” And oh god, the screech on her tone.

Murphy holds up his hands, “Okay, this went somewhere I didn’t intend. Let’s take a step back, and--” Clarke’s already stomping in the hallway, and if anyone was still asleep downstairs, they aren’t now. 

Murphy sits up, grinning. “You fucked that up.”

And as he rolls over to bury his face in a pillow and groan, Bellamy thinks, _Did I ever._

_Don’t I always_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooooh cranky Clarke takes no patriarchal guff from Bellamy Blake, no sirree. 
> 
> These two idiots, I swear to God, they're going to be the death of me, one minute being impossibly cute, next minute fighting about the future that they haven't even admitted they want yet. 
> 
> I did not misspell chaise longue, it's French. It's like a long reclining chair with a raised side, and you've seen a thousand of them if you've ever watched any historical drama in your entire life.
> 
> Okay, I've finally introduced a couple of events we're working towards! Upcoming drama includes: going to The Oscars! Charlotte's Sweet Sixteen which is white tie because Charlotte's a little bit of a drama queen, and then the Cartier campaign! I'm secretly stoked about the last. 
> 
> Plotting this chapter on a slow workday, while I count the hours til I can come home and write it? Couldn't Be Me.
> 
> I might need y'all to cut me a little slack, there may be a day between chapters sometimes now. Today was my first day back to work after being on medical leave and boy HOWDY did it destroy every brain cell I ever thought about having. Luckily I'd started this yesterday. 
> 
> I am aiming for this fic to have 30 chapters, and some of the future ones are going to run a little longer. So still lots of reading material, and I hope y'all are still enjoying my bubblegum fic!
> 
> As always, I live for your comments. <3
> 
> Chapter title from January Wedding by The Avett Brothers.


	13. Strawberries and Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we attend yet another lavish birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarke "let's go to ten thousand ridiculous themed birthday parties" Griffin is going to really stretch Bellamy's clothing budget, I think.

For Bellamy, who grew up in a small town just north of LA, barely more than a truck depot and a diner, the knowledge that kids in the city are next-level entitled is no surprise. He didn’t realize the depth of it until he put Octavia in boarding school when she was thirteen years old, and he had to buy her a new life before she started. Nothing she had was right: not her duvet set, not her shoes, not her haircut, not her lip gloss. There’s no shame like not having the right shade of Charlotte Tilbury lipstick on the first day of school, he heard endlessly about that one, so he asked a friend’s little sister to help him pick out anything and everything Octavia needed to belong, and he bought it. 

(And tried to let it absolve some of his guilt.)

(It did not.)

So when he receives the invitation to Charlotte’s Old Hollywood themed sweet sixteen, and notes that the dress code is white fucking tie, he barely even rolls his eyes, just immediately asks Harper to find out where he can get a vintage top hat and tails. 

And he even, if he does say so himself, looks pretty damn good in it.

He’s not even that shocked when Clarke rents a vintage Rolls Royce with a driver for their arrival. And he’s not even that shocked when Clarke shows up looking like Jessica Rabbit, in a contoured red satin dress that should come with a warning label, and her hair done like Rita Hayworth again. She bursts into giggles at the top hat but says nothing, instead making conversation about her day and the new video dropped by her favorite, no one other than Harry Styles. 

Nope, Bellamy’s not shocked until they arrive at the glamorous old hotel for Charlotte’s party, pull up to the red carpet, and have to push past a gauntlet of (fake) paparazzi and (fake) fans to get in the building, which is decorated in a way that probably cost more than Bellamy’s condo and his Rover put together. 

This party probably cost as much as Octavia’s house, which isn’t exactly in the most prestigious neighborhood, but is sprawling, modern, and gorgeous. And has a pool, which definitely matters when you live in the city through the long, hot summers. It wasn’t just expensive and in perfect condition, it was legitimately a beautiful home. It’ll sell for a pretty penny when he convinces Octavia she needs something more practical. 

Every time he thinks he’s ready to do that...he’s not.

And sometimes, sometimes he thinks he’s doing pretty well for himself. Then he comes up against real wealth, and it’s always a little sobering.

Clarke’s holding his hand, and she folds their arms together to lean close and ask, “what’re you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” he says, flashing her a smile, “did I tell you that you look great? Because you do.”

“Did I tell you that you look a little ridiculous? Because you do.” 

He flushes. “Damn, it, Clarke, should I ditch this hat somewhere?”

“Not until you see Charlotte. She’s going to love it. But she’s sixteen. Her opinions can’t be relied upon.”

Charlotte is a pretty child. She has none of the golden ethereal quality that Clarke carries, but then, she’s only a stepsister, even if a cherished one. Charlotte reminds him so much of Octavia at that age, just aching to fight with someone, anyone, to flex her own opinions, to carry her own weight. But she’s a child of wealthy people, the sister of a celebrity, and she’s clearly been to etiquette classes and finishing schools or whatever bullshit famous people do to make their kids ready for public consumption, so she is smiling beautifully at a pair of adults Bellamy’s never seen before, wearing a dress fit for a wedding cake. Her ash blonde hair is down in perfect curls, a tiny, elegant tiara perched on top. 

Converse peek out under her ballgown, and that endears her to Bellamy, just a little. 

The couple leaving bump straight into Clarke, maybe on purpose. The look she suddenly, immediately, _flawlessly_ wears is so polished, polite, and humble, that it almost feels real.

It’s not. She hates these people, Bellamy’s more than sure, and when she introduces the woman as Diana Sydney, he already hates her too. They’re saved by Charlotte shrieking, “Clarke!!!” in a piercing voice that cuts straight across the dance floor, “Bellamy! Come here come here come here!” 

“Sorry, Diana, the birthday girl summons, and verily I must go,” Clarke says dramatically, sweeping away, and Bellamy calls,

“Nice meeting you!” because he’s not rich or famous enough to be rude to people. 

“Dad’s gonna yell at me for that later,” Charlotte confides to Bellamy in a stage whisper, “but I had to save my sister from that bitch.”

“We don’t call women bitches,” Clarke admonishes, “but if we did, she’d definitely be one.”

Bellamy offers Charlotte her present, and she shakes it near her ear, says, “Tiffany bracelet,” confidently, and puts it on a table behind her. He’s agape. 

“Did Clarke tell you?! I spent like three hours agonizing over which one!” 

Charlotte takes him in with one eye narrowed. “You have a sister, right? She’s rebellious, but pretty. Did you ask her which one?” 

He nods. 

“I bet it’s the one with chains and a lock, but mixed in with pearls.” 

“What the fuck?” 

Clarke nudges his ribs with her elbow. “Children,” she singsongs.

“I have a gift,” Charlotte tells him proudly.

“Well, yeah, you have a million,” he gestures at the table.

“No, you absolute buffoon,” and oh, she _is_ Octavia reincarnated, “I have a gift for knowing what kinds of presents people are trying to suck up to me with.”

“I’m not trying to suck up to you. It’s your fu--it’s your birthday.” 

“Everyone tries to suck up to me, most especially Clarke’s boyfriends and girlfriends. Even that...er, even Lexa tried to suck up to me, which she should never, ever do, because she hates children and they hate her right back.”

“Charlotte, I don’t need to suck up to you. I’m totally lovable.” Bellamy attempts to slap a charming smile on his face, but Charlotte’s not having it.

“Is that what your sister would say?”

Now there’s a pointed barb he didn’t expect from a sixteen year old. 

“Didn’t think so. Now, Clarke.” Charlotte taps her toe impatiently, and Clarke proffers a small jewelry box with a tiny pink ribbon.

The box is from Cartier.

Bellamy tries to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. Clarke’d sworn she wasn’t going to give Charlotte anything extravagant. Sworn, and gotten mad at the price of the Tiffany bracelet, which he absolutely refused to return, and then they’d argued about it, and he’d had to practice the delicate art of apologizing without admitting you’re wrong, which turns out to be something Clarke is not a fan of, and they went round and round and finally she’d said _do whatever you want, Bellamy_ , in a dangerous tone of voice.

“Listen, hurry up and open it and put it on, so they can’t make you return it, because Kane’n Mom are gonna kill me.”

Charlotte looks delighted, and she hasn’t even opened the box yet. “Is it something I wanted?” Her voice is lilted. 

“Of course it’s something you wanted, you little idiot, now put it on! Mom’s coming over!”

Bellamy has to give Charlotte credit: she whips the jewelry out of the box and slides the bracelet over her hand without even commenting on it, while Clarke hastily tucks the box in her clutch. Abby must have some kind of motherly sixth sense, though, because she arches a single, suspicious eyebrow at Clarke, Charlotte, and Bellamy. “Having fun?”

“So much fun,” Charlotte beams. “A ridiculous amount of fun.” She’s clasped her hands innocently behind her back, the absolute picture of a teenager loving her extravagant party. 

Abby moves along, but she’s not far enough away when Charlotte throws exuberant arms around Clarke and the pricey rose-gold bangle flashes. Abby frowns. 

“Alert, alert, danger, your mom saw it. I repeat, your mom saw it.” Bellamy loosens his collar, abandons his hat on a high table. “This sisterly bullshit really gets a guy’s heart racing. Thank God I only had one.”

“I’m in so much trouble, you’d better love it, Squirt.”

“Honestly, Clarke,” and Charlotte’s got a little emotion in her voice, “this is literally the only thing I wanted, and I was dead certain I wouldn’t get it. I should have known you would be the only one to care what I actually like. I don’t even like this dress. Or these people, or…”

“Practice thankfulness, Charlotte,” the rebuke is meant kindly, but there’s an older-sister-wise-up note to it. “You’re blessed. Or lucky. Whatever. Don’t be such an old soul. Enjoy the rest of your childhood.”

“Don’t let them make me give it back.”

“If they do, we’ll just keep it at my place and you can wear it everywhere when you turn eighteen.”

Clarke thought this one through, and Bellamy’s swiveling between being pissed that they fought over his stupid bracelet when she bought one that costs ten times as much, and loving how much she cares for her sister.

Pissed feels petty when Charlotte marvels over the rose-gold bangle shaped like a single, perfect nail. It’s a beautiful thing...Octavia would love it.  
No. He’s not buying that fucking thing for Octavia, he’s not. 

He’s really not. 

But he googles Cartier nail bracelet to be sure that he’s not, and at the jaw-dropping price he puts his phone away and gets mad all over again. 

So he’s fuming a little, when ten teenage girls descend like magpies drawn to a bottlecap to shriek and fawn over Charlotte’s bracelet, and Clarke leads him away with a triumphant smile on her lips. 

She draws him near the dance floor, filled with adolescents dancing awkwardly, but when she turns to see his face her shoulders fall. “Don’t be mad, Bellamy. She’s my sister. And it’s all she’s talked about since she saw it in the window of the Cartier store when she was out with her mom. How iconic it was, how beautiful, elegant but tough. And it’s her sweet sixteen. And I love her like...a way I didn’t think I could when our parents started dating. I’d do anything for her. I’d literally die for her. So if I can afford to give her something she loves, I’m going to do it.” 

Hard to fight with such such admirable sentiments. He’d die for his sister, too. And he did buy her a house, nicer than anything he has himself, and lease her a car, even though he drew the line at a motorcycle. 

_I’m not getting you something likely to leave your brains strewn across the highway, O!_

_Don’t you trust me to drive it?_

_I don’t trust you at all!_

In the ranking of their fights, that one was definitely in the upper echelons. 

Abby approaches with someone who seems familiar to Bellamy, but he can’t quite place until the man smiles at Clarke.

That’s Wells Jaha’s smile.

This must be his father.

Thelonious Jaha has a fondness for Clarke that seems sincere. He is kind to Bellamy, interested in his career, saw _Wake Me Up_ and thought it was astounding though, “sadly lacking in diversity, don’t you think?” 

“Much media is, sir,” is the right answer, and luckily it lines up with Bellamy’s actual opinion. 

Jaha is examining him overtly now, the line of his jaw, the flare of his nose. “You’ll find I always say what I’m thinking when I think it’s important enough to say, so don’t be offended: have you had a DNA test done? To find out your ethnicity?”

Bellamy knows this man means well. He knows it. So he swallows down the answer he wants to give and instead, simply says yes.

“You should be including that in your bios. Leveraging it.”

“Simply put, sir, I didn’t know my father, or his family, and I didn’t grow up in that culture. I don’t really have a connection to it. It feels like appropriation to me to suddenly claim it, just because of my blood.”

Jaha shrugs a little. “It’s your birthright, son.”

Bellamy can see the headlines now: _**Bellamy Blake Discusses His Emotional Journey to Reconnect With His Heritage**_. 

If he ever has that journey--and he still might, he has a phone number tucked away, a _Lola_ in the Philippines who wants to know him--it won’t be for public consumption. 

Clarke is getting chewed out by her mother in the kind of whisper-scream argument that only family can have, and Bellamy is dying to dismiss Jaha but can’t figure out how to do it politely, so thank Christ and all the saints that Kane drifts over to break up the argument and introduce Jaha and Clarke to someone. Abby stands quietly next to Bellamy for a moment before she says, “My daughter is very generous to the people she loves.”

“I understand. I have a tendency to spoil my sister, too.”

“I hope you don’t plan to take advantage of Clarke’s kindness.”

Muscles in his neck cord; he wants to yell at Abby Kane but breathes out instead--1, 2, 3. 

“Clarke and I have a no gifts policy,” he tells Abby blandly.

“And she’s not supposed to give expensive presents to Charlotte, and yet here we are. Clarke seems very taken with you. I don’t want you to think that you can get something out of this relationship other than the mutual benefits you--”

“Abby, I’m taken with Clarke, too. I don’t want anything from her other than--”

“Sorry for interrupting, Mom, but I love this song, can we dance, Bellamy?”

The Griffin-Kane girls are excellent rescuers. It makes him wonder a little about their family dynamic as Clarke drags him out to the dance floor and starts a slow waltz. Out of the corner of Bellamy’s eye he can see Murphy dancing with Charlotte, his ears bright red. 

Probably the only present Charlotte’s going to like more than Clarke’s bangle is the slow dance from John Murphy himself. 

At some point Wells, Murphy, Clarke, and Bellamy end up hidden in a corner with a bottle of champagne and an entire platter of tiny plates. Bellamy has to admit that a not-coked-up Wells Jaha doesn’t suck, and the intimacy between the three friends who’ve known each other their entire lives is something enviable.

Maybe he has it with Harper. Then again, maybe he’s put too much distance between them, for too long, and they’ll never feel like co-conspirators again, hiding Jasper’s goggles and Monty’s favorite mechanical pencil, daring each other to drink just one more shot of moonshine, lifting cigarettes from his mom’s trashy boyfriend and then smoking the whole pack with Miller until their lungs burned and they felt like they might die but they were cool, weren’t they? So cool. 

Harper was a girl too beautiful and too sweet for a tired town rusting at the seams, and Bellamy will always consider it a miracle she made it out alive and happy instead of ending up like his mother. 

The night seems to wear on forever, but Clarke and Bellamy finally decamp to the Kane house with twelve teenage girls plus Charlotte, Abby, and a van full of presents, for a sleepover. After taking selfies with several of the girls, Bellamy skedaddles from the house to the pool house.

It’s nice, just a little studio room and a bathroom off of outdoor showers and pool gear. There’s a big TV mounted facing a large, comfortable bed, and a small refrigerator, microwave, and sink. Against the far wall a small couch and chair are covered with decorative pillows. Clarke’s still in her dress, no shoes on, a glass of water and bowl of strawberries on the counter while she watches the airing. She’s undone her hair and then pulled it up in a messy bun, earrings and jewelry on the counter. 

Bellamy’s barely closed the door before he sheds his jacket, tie, and shoes and unbuttons the top half of his shirt, whipping his belt off. 

“It’s starting!” Clarke bounces on her toes, and he goes to join her, staring up at the screen. She’s pacing a little, jittery, biting on a thumbnail.

He’s seen Clarke angry, he’s seen her drunk, he’s seen her sympathetic and kind. 

He’s never seen her nervous. And she’s not even nervous for herself, she’s nervous for him.

That’s something to hold close to his heart. 

He's not hoping for these nominations, because hope leads to hurt.

But it’s there: _Wake Me Up_ , Best Picture. _Wake Me Up_ , Best Original Screenplay. 

Clarke throws her arms around his neck, and this time, when he kisses her, she doesn’t say she doesn’t want this. She kisses back, their teeth clash, their tongues meet gently, she rises on tiptoe and cups her hands around his jaw to pull him into her. 

She tastes like strawberries. 

And all he wants is more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayoooo Jaha, maybe not the coolest thing to say to someone you just met? People who hide their rudeness under a disguise of "I'm just quirky/eccentric/brutally honest" are my least favorite, so of course I gave this quality to my least favorite character, Thelonious "why don't we just cull some people" Jaha. 
> 
> Clarke and Charlotte's relationship is so fun to write! Having a somewhat normal sibling relationship to contrast with the Blake siblings trash fire is fun. 
> 
> This week's title from Troye Sivan's song by the same name. My beta reader sent me a list of song lyrics earlier this week to use for fic or chapter titles and I have been trying to work them in so she doesn't feel unappreciated, but I heard this song this morning and literally thought about strawberry flavored kisses all day. Had to give the title a spot in Bellamy and Clarke's second not-fake kiss, and Bellamy's memories of growing up a delinquent with Harper. 
> 
> Next time: Uneven footing after their kiss, and Bellamy has an audition!
> 
> Edit: Someone drew my attention to the fact that, um, the ocean is the only thing west of LA, so I made a small edit!


	14. Some Mistakes Get Made (that's alright, that's okay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy eats pancakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can have a little smut, as a treat. (But only a little, don't go getting ideas.)

They stumble a few steps across the room and onto the bed, the nominations forgotten, TV barely a background buzz. Their lips are locked together, and Clarke keeps making tiny noises in her throat, little _mms_ and hums, her lips vibrating against his. Bellamy backs up until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and she can bend over him instead of trying to reach him on tiptoe.

She's more warm and alive than anyone he's ever held this close.

Clarke is caught up in her dress, and he touches the zipper, breaks apart from her only long enough to say, “can I?” 

She whispers assent, “please,” and when the dress starts to slide off she barely separates from him while she shimmies out of it. Her bustier and underpinnings are black lace against flawless ivory skin. She slides her knees onto the bed so that her thighs are on either side of his, sits back in his lap with his shirt fisted in her hands. 

Clarke is wide open, hot and wet, pressed up against his erection, when he takes second, just a second, to ask her: “Are we doing this?”

Her eyes are hooded, she twists one arm back to unhook the bustier, then drops it on the floor. She tilts her head, a curve of one side of her mouth: “Don’t you want to?”

The lace has imprinted itself on her skin, a pink pattern on her breasts and waist that he traces with gentle fingers, brushing his thumb across her nipple and making her shiver. “Yeah,” he breathes, burying her face in her neck, nipping at the curve. “I do. I really do.” 

He lifts her, lays her down on the bed, kisses his way across her shoulder and down her ribs, staring reverently all the while. 

Clarke is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, and yet it’s the least important thing about her. 

The culmination of their fights and their flirting and the way he feels when she smiles is the sound she makes when he sends her over the edge, and he loses himself buried inside of her, fireworks exploding behind his eyes. There's an inexplicable sense of loss when it’s over and he has to break away.

Bellamy’s slept with other women, other men. But he has never, ever, felt anything like that before. And when it’s over, and Clarke is lazily running one finger up and down the outline of his body, her face satisfied like the cat who’s gotten the cream, all he wants to do is tell her he’s in love with her. 

It isn’t the right moment; he doesn’t want her to think he’s just saying it because they slept together. Instead they clean up, put their pajamas on, and Bellamy fields a thousand texts about the nominations while Clarke reads a John Sanford mystery. 

Falling asleep in the same bed as her feels like a prize, but she’s not there when he wakes up.

It doesn’t seem like a good sign.

She’s looking out of the window into the pool, dressed in yoga leggings, a sports bra, and a loose tank top, her hair in a wild ponytail. Looks like she’s already been getting zen, and she’s absentmindedly popping fruit in her mouth. 

Bellamy feels a little wrecked, sits up, pretends not to notice the marks she left all over his body. Glasses on, he says, “Hey, good morning.”

The smile Clarke gives him is bright and false, but she sits close to him on the bed and offers him the bowl of fruit. 

Then she starts the speech he knew was coming the instant he opened his eyes. 

It hurts all the same.

“Listen...about last night. It was amazing.”

“It was,” he agrees hastily.

“But I don’t think we should make a habit of it.” Her eyes fall, she stares at the fruit like it’s breaking her heart.

“And why’s that?” He tries, really tries, not to sound hostile.

“Bellamy, I care about you so much, you know that, right?” She touches his temple. “Like, here, you know that? Not just your career, or what you can do for me. I care about _you_. We’re friends, right?”

“Clarke, I--”

“And,” she runs over him, “it’s because I care about you, and we’re friends, that I don’t want to do anything to fuck that up. If we...let ourselves get caught up in the romantic side of things...and it doesn’t work out, this next nine months, or year, it would be so awful. And when it was over we wouldn’t be friends, and that’s something that I would hate.”

“So,” his voice is challenging now, “you don’t feel anything for me other than friendship, and you just want to be friends, except for when we’re pretending to be in love? Because when we’re pretending, Clarke, it doesn’t feel like we’re pretending at all, and maybe you’re just that good of an actor, but I’m fucking not.”

She bites her lip, says nothing.

“You don’t feel anything?” 

“I can’t let myself get caught up in that.” She sidesteps the question like she’s dancing.

“This is what you want?” He cups her chin, pulls it up so he can see her eyes.

They’re shimmering with tears but she holds her own when she dodges him for a second time:

“This is how it has to be.”

“Okay,” he throws back the covers, grabs his clothes, gets dressed in a hurry. “Whatever.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Yeah, Clarke, I’m leaving. I need a little space from our _friendship_.”

“Why are you taking it like this?! You sleep with anyone, everyone!”

“You’re not anyone or everyone!” Bellamy’s voice is rising, sharp, “you’re not that to _me_. You mean more than that. And I thought I meant more to you, too.”

“You do! That’s why I’m--” Clarke closes her eyes, he can practically hear her counting as she tries to slow her breathing. “I can’t be the one who hurts you, Bellamy, please, I don’t know why you--”

“You _are_ the one who’s hurting me. _Right now_. So I need a break.”

Bellamy can’t look at her face, giant tears spilling out of her sapphire eyes, so he just runs. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know where to run. An empty house feels like the worst possible place, and his sister doesn’t know the whole story. 

He finds himself at Harper and Monty’s jewel-box house just outside the city, with its perfect postage stamp yard, and Jasper’s beat up little VW parked on the street. 

Harper opens the door with her face pre-arranged, a sweet yet confused smile, but as soon as she sees his face she just stands back and says, “the guys are in the kitchen. Pancake Sunday.”

A tradition going back so far Bellamy almost can’t remember when they weren’t having Pancake Sunday, usually at Harper’s house, sometimes at Monty’s. Their parents were nice. Poor, but nice, and whoever could scrape together enough money at the time would buy cheap pancake mix and syrup by the dozen whenever it was on sale for a buck at the tiny grocery store. 

When he was sixteen Pancake Sunday was like Bellamy’s idea of a good church: a place where you went to love, and be loved, and your heart was full when it was over.

Jasper is wearing a chef’s hat, and the pancake mix is from scratch, not the cheapest box they could find, but the feeling in the warm kitchen is the same, especially when Monty looks up from the counter, sees Bellamy’s expression, and says, “oh, no. What’s wrong?”

Jasper glances over his shoulder, “heyyyy, I was just wondering who was going to eat these four extra pancakes. Chocolate chip--if I recall correctly, that’s your favorite.”

Jasper remembers his favorite pancakes from twelve years ago, and see? To love and be loved.

“I’m in love with Clarke,” Bellamy blurts, and everyone seems a lot less shocked than they could be.

“Well, duh,” Monty actually looks genuinely confused. “I mean, everyone knows that.”

“She doesn’t love me back.”

“I don’t remember him being this stupid,” Jasper tells Monty conversationally. “Was he always this stupid?”

“Definitely,” Harper throws a chocolate chip at Bellamy. “That girl is head over heels, dreams of your eyes, hangs on to every word you say, wants to have your babies, idiotically in love with you, Bellamy Blake.”

Jasper adds, “blackout drunk on moonshine, she still pulled a blanket over you before she stumbled up the stairs.”

“She looks at you like you hung the moon,” Monty, ever the poet.

“She says she doesn’t. She says, and I quote, she can’t let herself get caught up in that, and this is how it has to be.” He gives them a quick rundown of the conversation, feeling a little foolish about how he left in a tizzy.

“So she didn’t actually say she doesn’t love you back.” It’s amazing how Jasper seems to be calculating while he dishes up the pancakes. “What I’m hearing is that she’s afraid that adding a romantic element to what you guys have going on, will cause trouble for your friendship and your...business arrangement. And that she doesn’t want to cause you pain if things don’t work out. Those are things someone who loves you would be very concerned about.”

“Are you the same guy who didn’t have a girlfriend til he was 19?”

“I’m the guy who proofreads Monty’s scripts and makes sure that what his characters aren’t saying is just as clear as what they are. Characters are based on people, Clarke is a person. And besides, it’s not hard to see where she’s coming from, Bellamy. You turned something lots of people do while they don’t even like each other into a tight friendship. She likes--no, I think she loves--to spend time with you. She reunited our friend group, and she invited us to her house and didn’t get mad that we left the place a minor disaster. She’s been trying to help your sister--”

“Wait, you know? About Octavia?”

Harper tells him gently, “We can talk about that later.”

“I think I want to talk about it now,” he growls, and then aggressively shoves a bite of pancake in his mouth. “Shit, I don’t think I’ve had pancakes in like, ten years. Are these amazing, or have I just forgotten what pancakes taste like?”

Monty looks more than a little proud of Jasper. “No, they’re actually amazing. Jasper’s been perfecting the recipe for years. Maya breaks her vegan diet for them.”

“I have a vegan recipe, I just can’t seem to get them as fluffy,” Jasper admits sadly, like it’s a personal failing. 

Bellamy’s almost mad the pancakes are so good, they’re distracting him from a two-pronged offense: yelling at them about Octavia, and arguing that Clarke fucking Griffin is not in love with him. He has to choose one, and for once in his life he chooses someone other than Octavia.

“So two idiots,” a pointed look at Jasper and Harper, “and a romantic,” Monty grins, “think that Clarke Griffin, Disney Princess, gorgeous, smart, business savvy, used to date Lexa Woods, is not only in love with me, but sacrificing her own happiness just in case it damages our friendship?”

“Didn’t you recently punch out her ex boyfriend?” Monty looks innocent, but if Bellamy knows anything about him, he’ll sneak up and go for the jugular. “And isn’t he like, a giant fucking asshole? Maybe having a relationship like that in her formative years didn’t exactly prepare her to accept things like undying love and affection from guys with terrible reputations. She definitely doesn’t want to hurt you, Bellamy, but maybe she doesn’t want to be hurt, either. Has it ever occurred to you that Clarke might be scared? And when you stomped out of there like a fucking drama queen, you probably scared her more?”

The pancakes taste like ash, now. 

“What’m I supposed to do?” He asks the plate.

“Be her friend,” Harper answers. “Show her that you don’t see this as transactional. Be there for her. Be...a safe place. She’s a safe place for you, isn’t she?”

“You’re a safe place for me,” he kisses Harper’s cheek, then Jasper’s, then Monty’s. “All of you.”

Three smiles. Pancake Sunday. Where your heart is full when you leave.

“But we’re going to talk about Octavia tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait, you can’t rush out dramatically! Even though he KNOWS that I don’t take work home, and he KNOWS that Sunday’s my day off, I got a text and an email from Kane this morning at 6AM! Hold on, I printed the script.” Harper crosses to the printer, and for all her annoyance, she doesn’t actually seem too irate. She always gets secretly excited when he auditions. “He wants a tape of you playing your guitar, singing a love song, whatever one you want, and looking like a cross between Jacob from _Wake Me Up_ and Aidan from, uh, what’s that one really dumb one where you were a chef? _Sharpen_ , yeah. Anyway, he wants yearning and earnest and yet confidently romantic, whatever that’s supposed to mean. And then you have to give a speech. Put it on the same video and send it to my phone, I’ll get it to where it’s going.”

Bellamy plucks the sheet from her hand with a thanks.

“Bellamy, he said, and I quote, _tell him not to fuck this up_. No pressure, though!”

Right. No pressure from Kane, no pressure from Clarke. 

The speech is easy, your standard love confession, even if it is a bit more eloquently written than normal. But playing his guitar in front of a camera is different; he feels self-conscious and a bit silly. He stutter-stops through the beginnings of a few different songs:

_C’mon, skinny love, just last the year/pour a little salt, we were never here…_

_Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry/you don’t know how lovely you are…_

He gets a little further with an ancient Dashboard Confessional song, all the way to the soaring chorus:

_Well as for now I’m gonna hear the saddest songs/and sit alone and wonder  
How you’re makin’ out  
But as for me, I wish that I was anywhere/with anyone/makin’ out…_

But that doesn’t feel right, it reminds him of high school, with a scratched, ancient guitar he lifted from a Goodwill shamelessly, trying to convince himself that Roma Bragg and his job at the truck depot were a life that could sustain his soul. 

Harper’s sent him a text with a video link and the words, “inspiration, maybe?”

He’d almost forgotten that Monty wanted Clarke for one of his indie films, forgotten even more that Clarke had wanted to do it, too. But here she is, having freshly finished a little read-through, with a guitar balanced delicately in her lap. 

Bellamy didn’t even know she could play.

It’s a personal failing, probably, that he doesn’t love music the way he used to. When he listens to the radio it’s usually the station that plays mainly nineties/early aughties rock, when he listens to albums it’s usually things he liked when he was younger, with the occasional one someone’s recommended to him. 

He listened to fifties country music for six months straight to get in the right mindset to be Jacob. 

So he doesn’t recognize Clarke’s song, barely even hears the first verse because his mind is racing over the soft, raspy sweetness of her voice. 

The chorus is vaguely familiar:

_Can I go where you go?  
Can we always be this close, forever and ever?  
And ah, take me out, and take me home  
You're my, my, my, my  
Lover_

It only takes him the length of the video to make up his mind. He throws his guitar in the back of the Rover, drives to Clarke’s place, prays she’s there. He’s got an apology all prepared but she’s standing in the doorway with such stark relief on her face that his mind goes blank.

“I’m…” He extends an empty hand, stuck on the rest of the words, but she saves him. She’s good at that. 

She nods: “Me too. What’s up?”

“I need help. I’m supposed to play and sing a song and look earnestly romantic but I feel like an idiot every time I turn on the camera. And every song seems fucking, like, insipid.”

Clarke beckons him inside. “And Monty and Harper told you I play guitar? Everyone’s such a snitch in your friend group, have you ever thought about that?”

“Hey, I avoided them for like, nearly twelve years, and it’s only through fault of your own that they’re hanging around again.”

“It’s only through fault of your own that you missed out on those twelve years. They’re all great, even though they tattle.”

She’s leading them upstairs and when they pass her bedroom his heart falters, thinking of last night, how she lay underneath him, pink and white and bare, a beautiful, breakable, thing of bone and flesh and gold. 

He might stand a little too close when she moves past him into a room filled with guitars and a giant sound system. He might brush her wrist with his fingers when she takes his guitar and sets it in a corner. 

“Use this one,” she hands him another, and pulls two stools up facing each other, takes a slightly smaller instrument for herself. “Let me guess, you listen to that radio station that plays Coldplay all the time.”

“I mean, old Coldplay. Good Coldplay!”

“Have you listened to literally anything released in the past five years?”

“I might, might, might...have a slight affinity for Lewis Capaldi.”

He watches her battle internally over whether or not to tease him. 

In the end she just says, in a slightly strangled voice, “I can work with that. I know _Someone You Loved_ and _Before You Go_.”

He wants to ask her a million questions: how often does she play, what’s she learning, does she ever sing with anyone else, who uses the guitar in his hands? 

Instead he tells her, “ _Mercy_ ’s my favorite, but I know _Someone You Loved_ a lot better.” 

“Okay.” She sets up her iPhone on a tripod. “We’ll do it a couple of times, then you can try it by yourself, however many takes you need. Just pretend like the camera’s not there. Focus on the guitar, focus on me, whatever you need." 

Stop, start, stumble, mess up the chord, forget the lyrics, begin again. Irritation bleeds through, he loses his place, lets out a frustrated noise. Clarke shakes her head. 

“Alright alright alright. Let’s try something else. Do you want to hear what I’ve been working on?” 

More than anything. “Yeah, okay.” 

She tilts her head, so familiar: an idea. “You play by ear, don’t you?” 

The blush takes him by surprise, feels like it starts at his toes, but he clears his throat. “I mean, yeah. When I was learning, I couldn’t afford lessons, and when I tried to look at chords on paper it was like they’d just swim in front of me. Youtube tutorials felt like even the beginner’s ones were hard to understand. So...I’d go to Jasper’s for the wifi and he’d helped me retool this shitty laptop, and I’d find acoustic versions of the songs I liked and listen to them a thousand times until I could figure out how to reproduce them.” 

“Don’t blush. That’s a real talent, Bellamy. I had a lot of very expensive lessons with very expensive teachers to be able to play as well as I do. Okay, I have an idea.” 

The idea is to teach him a song he’s never heard before, and they’re still singing and playing long after the sun goes down and Harper’s sent him twenty text messages and then he gets a call from Kane that he just...ignores, because Clarke is right there and her voice is blending with his and he loves her and since she’s been teaching him for five solid hours without dinner or a break or expectations… 

Maybe, maybe, she does love him, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, this chapter ended up being a bit longer, hope it was worth the read!
> 
> This chapter's title (and the song Clarke teaches Bellamy) is Moral of the Story--I prefer the Ashe + Niall Horan version, but you do you. I listened to a ton of songs to try and find one that fit their dynamic and this chapter in general, but felt the lyric "you think that you're in love when you're really just in pain" really fit Clarke's obvious fears. 
> 
> If you haven't heard the other songs listed I'm shocked but just in case! We've got Skinny Love/Bon Iver, The Scientist/Coldplay, Screaming Infidelities/Dashboard Confessional. And then of course Clarke is singing Lover/Taylor Swift. 
> 
> (Hello my name is Jackie and I'm trying to figure out how to mention Taylor Swift and Harry Styles at every turn in this fic, since they inspired it!)
> 
> I enjoy writing about Bellamy's shitty childhood more than I probably should. 
> 
> Blushed like a schoolgirl all through writing the first scene, chose to leave much of it up to the imagination. Since this fic follows Bellamy's (often casual) POV, I kinda figured he'd be driven mindless at that point. 
> 
> Next few chapters: Clarke and Bellamy's music session starts an unintended domino effect, Clarke plans an Oscar party, Octavia makes some important decisions. More delinquents, more Murphy! 
> 
> I love your comments, don't hesitate to leave one!


	15. Troubles Yet to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Octavia comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, just a short one tonight! Longer tomorrow, I promise!

When Bellamy met Marcus Kane at eighteen and a half years old, the man seemed to be an endless font of advice. One thing he immediately told Bellamy was to set a schedule in his off-time, and try to stick to it. (Did Bellamy listen to this advice? Hahahahaha no.)

“I get up at 5:30 every day,” Kane had told him. “That way I can be sure I get started on last night’s problems before the people under my care wake up.”

The sweetness of referring to high-anxiety actors and actresses as “people under my care” aside, it meant that Bellamy isn’t exactly surprised to hear from Kane at 6 in the morning, even though he isn’t awake and sharp enough to do battle.

“Bellamy,” Kane begins, “can you explain to me why I just got this message from the director and casting agent on this movie? It says, ‘we like Blake. Also have someone in mind for female lead, but would like to see more of blonde. Please send tape of her reading and another song with Blake.’ I assume the blonde is Clarke as you aren’t spending time with any other blondes. How did a tape of you two together end up at their fingertips? Did it occur to you that if I thought that role was right for Clarke, I would have asked her to audition for it myself?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bellamy replies grouchily. “Clarke did help me with the song, but in the end I managed to do one by myself to send in.” Ice settles in his stomach--he _did_ send a copy of him singing with Clarke to Harper--strictly so she could see the results of her help--she must have accidentally sent that one too. “It must have been a mistake on Harper’s part, she had several copies of the same song.”

“You’re blaming your assistant?” Kane does not sound pleased.

“She’s not just my assistant,” Bellamy’s voice climbs. “She’s my friend, and she doesn’t usually make mistakes, so I’m not going to give her a hard time over this one, and neither are you.”

“Bellamy.” Kane’s voice is reasonable, “I’m not going to give her a hard time. But I want you to understand something. I’m going to take this to Clarke, and she’ll give them what they want, and we’ll go from there. But I’m not happy with you. I’m very personally invested in you, but Clarke is my stepdaughter--like a daughter. I love her. And the second your sloppy attempts at a real career start to mess with her life and her career, we’re going to have a problem. Me and you, are you tracking?”

“Yes, sir.” Bellamy bangs his fist into his forehead.

“I expect you’ll hear from Clarke soon, then.”

And he does.

Though the hour is a little more reasonable.

Clarke’s on the couch with her guitar, patiently walking Bellamy through another song, when the doorbell rings. He’s secretly grateful for the interruption, because Clarke’s patient, of course she is, but he is not. 

He feels a little less grateful when the interruption is Octavia, looking like she’s ready to set a bomb off in his life. 

“Is Clarke here?” she asks immediately. 

Clarke herself gives a little wave from down the hall. “I can leave,” she says. “Come back later?”

“No,” Octavia takes off her sunglasses. She isn’t wearing her trademark eyeliner, or any makeup at all, and she looks young and vulnerable. “No, I want to talk to both of you.”

Octavia, ever the observer, immediately notices the guitars. “Are you playing again?” She touches Clarke’s, then, smirking. “Nevermind, of course you are. For Clarke.”

He sinks into the couch, frowning, glaring. “For a role,” he tells his sister. “An audition, I mean.”

Octavia’s under his skin like she never left, the girl who started trying to annoy him as soon as she woke up every morning perching on a chair in his living room like she sits there every time she comes over.

Except she never comes over, so what’s she doing here now?

Clarke squeezes Octavia’s shoulder on her way to the couch, but the blonde sits next to Bellamy as if that’s her designated position. She’s radiating calmness, tucks her fingers under her thighs and offers a smile: “What’s going on, Octavia? How are you?”

Bellamy breathes in: This is any visit, every visit. Clarke and Octavia are friends chatting, catching up. 

“Jasper said you were less than pleased that I went to them about...everything. And you really have no right to be upset with them, Bellamy. You know my friends are all fucking awful. Anya’s worse than useless when it comes to down to support. I didn’t feel like I could talk to you about it--I already knew what you wanted me to do--”

“O, I’ll support you no matter what you decide to do--” She waves her hand at him.

“I’m sure you will, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you think the right thing to do is. And Clarke, I appreciate you so much, but your commitment to being impartial and not wanting to tell me what you thought the right thing to do was...I just needed someone else. So I called Harper, and the guys were there, and I just went and spilled my guts.”

“Did it help?” Clarke leans in, elbows on her knees, pushes her hair behind her ears. 

Octavia smiles a little, for the first time.

“It actually really did. So I came to just--uh, we need to sell that house, look for something more family friendly, change my car, uh, just a lot of stuff,” Octavia pulls a notepad out of her bag, “Lincoln and I made a list…”

Bellamy can’t think. His brain is worthless. Octavia’s saying words, but they don’t mean anything, do they?

Clarke’s...kind of grinning. “So, does this mean…?”

Octavia’s...kind of grinning back. “Yeah. Yeah, we decided. For sure.”

“Holy shit, Bellamy. You’re going to be an uncle.” 

The look on Clarke’s face is not something he’ll ever forget. She’s delighted. She’s ecstatic. For him. For Octavia. For a family she’s going to leave someday, nine months, a year, she’ll be gone, famous, probably with someone who deserves her a little bit more. And some other girl will come along and she won’t be the girl who looked at him like that when he got arguably the best news he’s ever heard. 

These moments, these feelings, Clarke’s rosebud mouth and her wide eyes and the way she tightens her fingers on his wrists and says his name like it’s poetry--they’re ephemeral, fleeting, they’ll be gone before he knows it and no one else will say his name that way ever again.

And so he’s somehow heartbroken when he gingerly hugs his sister and promises that he will do anything she needs him to. 

He’s somehow heartbroken when Clarke throws her arms around Octavia’s shoulders and swears she’s going to help with everything. 

He’s somehow heartbroken after his sister leaves to tell other people who deserve to know, he’s somehow heartbroken when Clarke rounds on him with shining eyes, he’s somehow heartbroken when they pick up their guitars again.

_Three weeks ago he and Clarke drank too much whiskey on a weeknight and climbed out the attic window at her place, laid on the roof and watched the stars. On the downturn of being drunk, when he started to feel a little maudlin, he’d asked her: “Do you ever think about the end of us?”_

_And she, tipsy and sleepy, replied: “I always tell myself that there is no end to us.”_

_He wants to tell himself that, too, but he’s not drunk anymore._

The only way Clarke will stay is if she loves him, really loves him, and he’s still not even sure if that’s the case. And even if she loves him now, will she still love him in a year?

Clarke touches his arm. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’re not happy about the baby?”

“No, I am. I honestly am.” But he doesn’t look at her, and she’s still standing there, searching him all over, like she’s looking for a wound.

“Okay, so talk to me. What’s bothering you?”

He wonders briefly how far she’ll push it if he brushes it off: “Nothing, I just feel really weird. Super emotional, stressed about all the things I need to do before...I mean, we’re on a seven month schedule.”

“I’ll help you,” Clarke lets it go, thank god. “I’ve been through this before, my mom’s friend Charmaine had a surprise baby a couple of years ago, and we only had five months because she didn’t realize she was pregnant forever. But...Hope’s a treasure, I would do it all for her again, and more.” She puts her guitar pick in her mouth, adjusts the guitar, talks around it: “how’re you feeling about ‘Need You Now’--think you’re comfortable recording?”

He nods. It’s Clarke’s song to carry, really, but he’s there to show their chemistry, and he doesn’t want to fuck that up. He doesn’t even have to work to put the emotion in his voice, it’s there, because one day Clarke’s going to be gone and he’s going to be drunk in the middle of the night and he’ll call her, or at least he’ll want to, and say he needs her and she’ll say--

He’s slammed the guitar down before he’s sure she’s got the camera off, and he stalks blindly across the room and up the stairs because he just might cry, and beyond the fact that it’s fucking embarrassing he isn’t ready to explain to Clarke why. 

He's not even sure if he knows why, aside from the fact that he's spent the last hour and a half convincing himself that he's going to lose her. 

And isn't that enough? The thought of losing Clarke? It feels like enough, it feels like too much. It feels like more than a man should have to stand.

“Bellamy, what the hell?”

He escapes her shocked expression, the living room that’s become too hot and too bright, taking the stairs two at a time. He slams the bedroom door so hard it sounds like a gunshot’s gone off. 

It’s a few moments before she comes in; he’s pretty sure that she’s sending off her tapes from that day. But she does come in quietly, in the end, and sits on the bed where he’s laying miserably. 

Bellamy hunches his back against what he can only imagine will be an onslaught of questions.

“It’s been kind of a weird day,” she says softly. “I’ve been super worried about this situation with Octavia, so it’s a huge relief, right? But then also a lot that’s concerning and there’s so much to do...so I get it, if you’re having a lot of conflicting feelings.”

He just nods. Let her think that’s it. 

“But if there’s anything else, and you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“There isn’t,” he tells her shortly. But he does lift his head and put it in her lap, curling his hand around her thigh. She begins to pull her fingers through his curls gently, talking in a soothing tone of voice about a movie, the weather, anything, everything, and eventually it pulls him under.

She’s not there when he wakes up, and _that’s_ starting to feel like a habit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy swiveling between convincing himself that Clarke loves him too, and being sure that she absolutely does not, is going to drive some people up a wall soon.
> 
> Also coming up soon: delinquents, Murphy, more dominoes falling (?!), Oscar party, Bellamy and Raven drink too much.
> 
> Chapter title from Weak by AJR, song Clarke and Bellamy sing is Need You Now by Lady A. 
> 
> Diyoza mention! Trying to work her in a little bit up ahead, but this fic is positively swimming with characters and unlike the show, doesn't have 100 scripts in which to utilize characters.
> 
> Had to cut this one short, so tired, must head to bed! I love your comments more than chocolate.


	16. I Don't Have the Power Now (I don't want it, anyhow)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I miss subtle meta commentary by a mile. But you love me anyway. (I hope.) Also in which all the characters are feeling extra snarky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I don't hate Lexa! Or Echo! Or anyone who's in the "villain" position in this fic! It's just a story! I promise to play nicely with those characters another time, I really do. <3

Bellamy auditioned for a TV show, once, when he was young and stupid. The showrunner demanded endless “chemistry reads” and he went in once, twice, five times with five different young men meant to play the goofy (but important!) best friend. He could never feel the chemistry they wanted, even though he liked the other actors and they seemed to like him too. It just didn’t flow, the quirky dialogue seemed stilted, the extended high five was silly. 

In the end the show was scrapped, anyway, but he’s hated chemistry reads ever since, and prefers movies where the actors are talented enough to pretend they love each other even when they hate each other. (And he hadn’t cared for several of them, in truth.) 

However, where Kane beckons he goes, and so he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees in a waiting room devoid of personality with his guitar feeling a little sorry for himself when Lexa fucking Woods strolls in and gives him a look like she can’t believe her good luck, and without even introducing herself immediately demands: “How’s Clarke?”

“I’m Bellamy Blake,” he snarks, “so nice to meet you.”

“Give me a break, I know exactly who you are, and I’m pretty sure we met at a party at Echo’s place...not that you’d remember, you and Echo spent all your time fucked up. Guess that’s how she stays so thin. And I know you know who _I_ am. I don’t think we’re destined to be friends, really, so let’s skip the falsities, alright?”

Whoa. So everything he’s heard about her attitude is true, and damn, he can’t imagine Clarke finding this girl personable or lovable. 

In the interest of the fact that Kane told him not to fuck this up--because Kane did, four or five separate times--Bellamy tells her, “Clarke’s good. Uh, she was just in some CW show in a small role, her sister finally had her Sweet Sixteen, and um, I think she’s been working on learning some new songs on her guitar.”

“If I wanted to know that kind of bullshit, I could look at her stupid blog,” Lexa looks well and truly irritated.

“If you want to know more, maybe you can send her a text message and let her decide if she wants to tell you anything more personal.”

And it goes on that way for awhile. 

The last thing she hisses at him before they go in is, “No idea what she sees in you,” and the last thing Bellamy says is:

“Yeah, back atcha.”

And yet, he doesn’t think it goes horribly. He’s definitely been through worse, and while Lexa might not be very likable she’s a professional. Their banter bounces nicely, maybe? But apparently Lexa doesn’t play guitar, so even though he lugged his down here he won’t have to play, and honestly, bless Lexa a little bit for that. He still feels dorky about it when Clarke isn’t there to back him up. 

They finish up with a kiss, and after kissing Clarke, honestly, anyone else would be second fiddle. But Lexa’s more like fifteenth fiddle, so far down the roster she isn’t even playing. He guesses it’s okay. It isn’t awful. Probably. Maybe. 

However, no matter how ‘okay’ it feels, the crew sitting at the table are wearing alternating expressions of disinterest and distaste. Before Lexa and Bellamy began, one of them had explained: “you have to understand--in this movie, we have to root for the couple no matter what happens, and no matter what mistakes they make.”

As the door is slamming at his back, Bellamy hears someone mumble, “I wouldn’t root for them if they were the last two people on earth.”

Cool. Cool, cool, cool, he wouldn’t have even come to this godforsaken thing if he’d known Lexa had already been cast, and he makes a note to tell Kane exactly that. In fact, he works up a good head of steam about it on his drive home, and calls Harper to rant, and in the middle of him talking about what an absolute raging asshole Lexa was, Harper says, in a strange tone of voice, “Um, Bellamy, I just got a text from Kane.”

“Look, I put in my best effort--” Bellamy begins, even though that’s a complete lie.

“They want you back in three days.” There is something quietly exultant when she says it, and she adds triumphantly, “to read with Clarke.”

Bellamy’s so shocked he blows through a red light and nearly runs over a woman carrying a poodle.

“Lexa’s not cast--they haven’t cast either lead, because they want two people who really make the relationship resonate, and Lexa’s read with three guys and can’t make it work. I imagine she’s who they had in mind when they sent that message asking for more footage of Clarke, and Bellamy, you should call her right now.”

She’s already calling him, so he rushes to hang up with Harper, and has barely gotten hello out when Clarke’s voice fills the Rover, tinged with irritation.

“Why have I gotten ten text messages from Lexa in the past fifteen minutes? And why did my very irritated stepfather just inform me that I am doing a chemistry read with YOU in a couple of days, and neither one of us better fuck it up, because this movie’s gonna be hella Oscar bait and could, and I fucking quote, Bellamy, change the trajectory of our careers? What, exactly, happened at your read?! And why didn’t you call me the instant you got out of it?!”

Bellamy’s not sure if he’s ever heard her voice hit that particular pitch of annoyance before. Maybe the day he accidentally used the phrase “let my wife,” and she tore out of their comfy puppy pile with Murphy to slam doors and clean the kitchen and drive off the remaining delinquents with absolutely no sympathy for their hangovers.

“Hi, Clarke. How’s your day going? I just met your ex, and boy, is she a peach.” 

“That is not the correct tone to take with me right now, Bellamy Blake,” and God, Clarke can make her voice so dangerous, so fast. 

“It’s not often I meet someone who hates me the second they see me, but I had that...privilege today. She immediately asked about you and when my answers were too vague she got pissed. I told her she should text you if she wanted to know so badly, and then we basically said we should duel for the prize of your heart right as we walked into the room.”

“Oh, for fuck’s _sake_ , Bellamy.”

“I actually thought it didn’t go that badly, but then someone said we were awful right as we walked out. I just assumed they’d already decided they were going with her, and I was bitching to Harper about it when I heard they wanted me back. To read with you.”

She sighs. “Kane’s so mad at us. He says he didn’t feel the part was right for me, he never intended to have me involved in this project. But now that it’s in front of us...I mean, I can’t NOT go for it.”

Not in front of _me_ , in front of _us_.

“I think we should watch all the footage we’ve sent so far. And they told me to bring my guitar--probably going to want us to play again. And anything you can tell me about the scripts from today? I’m going to come over--or no. Can you come over here? That way we can work in the music room. I’ve gotta...deal with Lexa, and thanks for that, Romeo.” 

“Listen, Clarke, that woman had it out for me from the second she saw my face, it’s not my fault if--”

“I literally could not care _less_ about your excuses. I know how Lexa is. She likes to try to pry people’s skin off their bones via sheer rudeness. But you needed to act like a professional and instead you formed some kind of petty rivalry with her, and put me and your access to me in the middle. I don’t appreciate shit like that, Bellamy. At all.”

“I just can’t imagine how you ever became friends with her, much less anything more.” 

Clarke’s silent for a moment. “When someone who doesn’t value anything, seems like they value _you_...I was very taken with that, for longer than I should have been.” 

Bellamy’s not sure anyone’s ever valued him.

“Come over at 4, okay? I’ll see you then.”

She’s dismissed him before he can apologize, before he’s even decided he wants to apologize.

Raven’s bike is in the guest spot, and not only was he not expecting her, but he hasn’t heard from her since the night of the Oscar noms airing. 

There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table, one glass on the table next to it and another in her hand as she jaws to someone on her cell. She’s got her boots on the table even though she knows it bugs Bellamy, and he considers swiping them off because thanks to the one-two punch of Lexa and Clarke, he is now in a _mood_. 

Instead he pours himself two fingers of whiskey (can’t get drunk, due at Clarke’s later, he reminds himself) and hurls himself into a chair with all the grace and nuance of a surly fifteen year old. Raven raises one impeccably groomed eyebrow at him, making a “wrap this up” gesture at her caller. She’s barely told whoever-it-was goodbye before Bellamy sulks at her, “you know, some people call before they show up. What if I hadn’t come home?”

“I see you’re in a fucking delightful mood,” she snaps back. “Glad to see your cheerful face.”

Here’s the thing: Bellamy likes Raven. He likes her a lot. She’s whip-smart, probably too smart for her job. Capable, funny, more than a little understanding of the faults and foibles of the myriad of people whose public lives are her responsibility. 

But she never, ever backs down from a fight, and he’s not really ready to have one right now. Especially not with someone who can argue him into a corner and leave him with a figurative black eye.

So he tries that inhale-exhale-count-to-three thing Clarke does and finally manages: “Sorry, I just got chewed out.” 

“By who?” Raven’s boots hit the ground, and she’s openly curious.

He scrubs his hands over his face. “Clarke.”

Raven goes pale. “But I thought it was going well! I thought...I mean you’ve seemed so…I had to give you that warning and…what the hell is going on?!”

Bellamy confesses everything, leaves out nothing, not even the fight that nearly broke him in two. Raven looks like she wants to tear out her own eyeballs at multiple points as he stagger-steps through Pancake Sunday and Octavia’s pregnancy, and then her eye starts twitching somewhere during the chemistry read with Lexa and she finally whispers, “Dear God, is that all of it? I don’t think I can take any more.”

“That brings us to exactly now,” Bellamy sighs, wonders how much whiskey he can have and still be able to drive across town. 

“First of all, and I just need to get this out of the way: You’re both idiots, especially you, and this all could have been avoided if you’d stuck to the original idea instead of becoming friends.”

“You said we’d become friends!”

“I meant by the time the year was over, not immediate besties, not immediate besties who fall in love, and not immediate besties who get caught up in a good-news moment and fuck each other!”

“I was already…before that night.” Just a little more whiskey, he thinks. Just a little, to soften the blow of whatever devastatingly practical advice Raven’s about to dish out. 

“I know you were, but now you’re really deep, aren’t you?”

Deep? Deep was the day she said _you have so much to offer, you are more_.

Deep was the day she was proud of him for apologizing to his sister.

Deep was the morning she got up at five just to make time to call him.

Deep was like fourteen steps ago, they’d have to create a new layer of the earth for where he is now. 

“I have bailed so many people’s reputations out of the sewer because they fell in love with the wrong person,” Raven’s voice is contemplative. “But it’s not often that I get to tell myself that my clients are in love with the right person.”

That’s not what he expected her to say on any level, and he stares at her, expecting more, nearly wanting to hear her say that this is a mistake, so much of a mistake, and she has a plan for getting him out of it that they could implement this afternoon.

That doesn’t come. There’s actually a soft smile on her face, something delicate he rarely sees. 

“Raven, should I--” he lets the question trail off. What is the question, anyway? Should I keep falling in love with Clarke Griffin? It doesn’t really seem optional, at this point. Something he was always going to do, and always will do, as many times as the opportunity comes up. Something a little like fate, if he believed in such things.

She shakes her head, a relentless machine. “So, how’re we going to leverage Octavia’s pregnancy for the best Bellarke optics?”

“The best...what now?”

“Oh! Oh my God, I completely lost track of what I came here for.” She pulls something up on her phone, hands it to him. 

_**Bellarke Spotted At a Neighborhood Favorite**_ over a picture of him and Clarke, her in the Blake baseball cap, him with a beanie pulled over his ears, back to the Indian restaurant with the awesome pakoras. 

Raven flips to a few more articles, Bellamy half groans. “So this is a thing now?”

She grins, her incisors flashing. “I think it’s catchy!”

“Well. I guess it’s better than Flarke was.”

The smile drops. “In more ways than one, Blake.” He watches her shake it off, rolling her shoulders. “Okay, well, in the midst of your couple name trending, it’s time for you guys to do something cute together.”

“Auditioning for a movie together isn’t enough?” He catches sight of the time. “Shit, I have to brush my teeth and go, text me your ideas?”

“I came to discuss them face-to-face, if you’re going to Clarke’s I’m just going to follow you over.”

So he texts Clarke a warning and leaves casually like he’s not going to be twenty minutes late no matter how fast he drives.

Being followed by Raven, zipping around cars and splitting lanes on her bike, is a harrowing experience he never wants to repeat. He thinks she’s going to die at least seven different times, and when they pull up to the house, him in the driveway, her on the street, he yells at her as quietly as possible, but she just laughs at him: “No worries, Blake, I’d never put my bike in any danger.” 

She’s quickly distracted by a shiny, new luxury car parking haphazardly on the street, and she walks around it, kicking the wheels and running her fingers over the flawless paint job. 

When Murphy opens the door to them, she pushes past Bellamy and opens the conversation with, “That your piece-a-shit out there?”

“Maybe it’s Clarke’s,” he replies, shutting the door, wearing a curious expression. Bellamy's secretly thrilled to see something other than boredom on his face. 

“She’d never drive something so tacky.” Raven drops her helmet on the staircase, shrugs her jacket off. “What’s that paint color, Daddy-Bought-This Red?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugs, “You can’t afford it.”

Bellamy asks, “Christ, Murphy, where’s that other thing you drive?” _Which is waaaaay uglier than this one_ , he thinks, but keeps that part to himself. 

“In the garage, with the other cars. And who the fuck is this, Blake? You gonna make introductions, or do they not have those where you’re from?”

“Raven Reyes,” she supplies quickly, holding out her hand to shake, “Publicist extraordinaire and all-around celebrity wrangler.” 

Murphy looks at her hand like it has visible cooties as Clarke comes down the stairs and shrieks, “Raven?!” in a penetrating, girlish voice.

Neither Murphy nor Bellamy have any interest in an ear-piercing reunion between two women who are generally pretty chill, and they move into the kitchen swiftly, Murphy asking irritably, “why’d you bring your publicist?” 

“She wanted to talk about...Bellarke trending, or something? And she knows Clarke, I thought they’d be happy to see each other, which they are. And why the hell are you here?”

“Clarke asked me to watch all this footage. I’ve been watching you sing for hours, Blake, I’m already annoyed with you and you just got here.”

Clarke and Raven are racing through conversations, the fastest he’s ever heard either of them talk, their words tripping over each other in their haste to share information.

Murphy leans against the counter, but his expression is troubled, intense. “Listen, Blake, you need to think about what you’re getting into, here. If you and Clarke go into this project together, you’re going to be tied to her for a lot longer than a year. The whole time you’re filming, maybe even through the next Oscar season after it releases. Are you hearing me? People are going to want to see you together in promoting the movie, they’re going to want to see you on the red carpet looking gorgeous together. We’re not talking this being over by next summer. I know you think you’re in love with her, but--”

“Shut up, Murphy,” Bellamy hisses, with a glance toward the doorway. “You think I don’t know that? And, Christ, do you think it’s a hardship to be tied to Clarke for as long as she’ll put up with me?”

“She could end up hating you,” Murphy insists, “Do you get that? You could end up hating her.”

“Murphy, that’s not going to happen. I know that’s not going to happen. Are you with me? Like I get that Clarke and I aren’t quite on the same page right now but I know that I’ll never hate her. And I don’t think she’ll ever hate me. She’s not that person, she’s...generous.”

Murphy offers the tight little smile that seems to be the only one he knows. “Yeah. I knew you’d say that. I gave Clarke the same speech and she said the same shit. Had to get it out there, though. Just in case.”

_I gave Clarke the same speech and she said the same shit._

Bellamy’s mind is racing over that idea, that missed conversation, as Raven lists ideas for the next Bellarke outing and wonders how close Clarke can become to Octavia, how fast?

_Faster than anyone else_ , Bellamy reminds himself. _One night of hysterical sobbing seemed to do it just fine._

When it’s over, and Murphy and Raven make a quick exit at the same time (having exchanged phone numbers because apparently those insults were FLIRTING) and Clarke’s dragged Bellamy up to the music room with a huge, happy smile on her face, she turns to him and kisses his cheek. 

“Thanks for bringing Raven. It’s nice to see people from my past who actually do care about me.” 

That’s her only reference to Lexa’s texts, but it’s clear: she didn’t enjoy that foray into yesteryear.

Bellamy sits with his guitar, but Clarke takes one look at him and offers him the other one, and he has to wonder for the second time who normally plays it. 

“Is this one usually Murphy’s?” he’s not looking at her when he asks it, so he misses her expression when she quietly replies, 

“No, it was my dad’s.”

He meets her face with his jaw hanging open, and he quickly offers it back, says, “I don’t want to mess it up,” but she shakes her head, digging in her pocket for a pick. 

“Keep it,” she tells him, eyes on his, “it looks good on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooooooh I'ma let y'all sit with that one awhile.
> 
> Murphy's "ugly" car based on a Ferrari Spider, brand new and bright-ass yellow. The car Raven refers to as a piece of shit is very much not! It's a Bentley Continental GT, which is not only a very nice, very expensive car, but an aesthetically pleasing one as well. 
> 
> I'm not sure I'll ever get the chance to mention this organically, but Murphy and Clarke both invested much of their "Disney Star" money with tech genius Thelonious Jaha, and that's where all their ridiculous dough comes from. Not sure if little Disney starlets are normally running around buying multiple six-figure-cars and Piaget watches and Cartier bracelets, but something tells me no. (Yeah, I've got headcanons for my fic, and what of it?)
> 
> We are taking it waaaaaay back with this chapter title, which comes from Garth Brooks's fucking iconic country hit, Shameless. Two things: Billy Joel actually wrote this song! I did not know that until I looked up the lyrics today. Also, I find the lyrics of this song SO APPROPRIATE for how Bellamy feels about Clarke.
> 
> I love your comments more than ketchup chips. 
> 
> Still heading towards: The audition! Oscar party! More Murven! Delinquents!


	17. I Don't Have a Choice (but I'd still choose you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke has Big Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about yesterday--started a new fic that was just itching to get out!

It’s not even the weekend when Bellamy catches Miller sneaking sheepishly down the outdoor staircase from Jackson’s place, and invites him in for a beer. Miller’s never been the expansive type, but he does mention that Clarke is his new second-favorite person due to the fact that she introduced him to his new first-favorite person. 

She’s Bellamy’s first-favorite person, but it doesn’t feel new anymore, it’s warm and comfortable in his chest. 

“You’re so gone for this girl,” Miller tells him, draining the last from his bottle. “Doesn’t really match that _tough-guy, sleeps with every pretty woman or man he ever comes across_ reputation you spent so many years cultivating under my nose at Troit.”

“That doesn’t really feel like me anymore.” And this much is true, he hasn’t even been to Troit recently, can’t remember the last time he even looked at someone who wasn’t Clarke. And with the weight of Octavia’s pregnancy hanging over him, reminding him that he’s an adult with adult responsibilities, partying has seemed juvenile. 

As if reading his mind, Miller says, “hey, I heard about Octavia. Congratulations. Being an uncle is amazing--you get to wind the kid up and buy them presents, and then give them back to their parents when they cry.”

That’s what Bellamy’s thinking about when Clarke suggests an Oscars Party, playing with a dark-haired toddler who has that dimple in Octavia’s cheek, the one you only see when she smiles for real. 

“We can do it at my place, just super casual, but invite the whole crew. I have that huge TV. It’ll be fun, what do you think? We can invite Lincoln and Octavia too.”

Bellamy still owes Lincoln a reckoning, but when he is quiet, mulling that over, Clarke breaks in with: “You’d better not be thinking about punching Lincoln. That’s not going to help anything, or change anything. It’s time for you to be nice to him, he’s going to be your brother in law soon enough.”

A silence comes between them, then Bellamy enunciates his next question distinctly: “Is that so, Clarke?”

Her tone is slightly mortified when she replies, “so I guess Octavia hasn’t actually talked to you about that yet?”

“But she’s talked to you?”

“I mean, both of them have.”

He gently hangs the phone up without another word, before he starts yelling, because this isn’t Clarke’s fault.

His phone immediately vibrates with a text:

_**CG: Don’t call your sister when you’re angry.  
CG: She’s pregnant and emotional.  
CG: And grow the fuck up, Bellamy. Temper tantrums because your sister doesn’t tell you things first are so juvenile it makes me want to scream. ** _

She may be his first-favorite person, but Clarke is brutal sometimes.

It’s maybe twenty minutes before Octavia calls. She manages to sound both sheepish and challenging when she begins with: “So you’re being rude to Clarke when you’re mad at me now?”

“So you’re planning on marrying Lincoln without even discussing it with me now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I was going to discuss it with you. But Clarke’s the most level-headed person I’ve ever met in my life, so Lincoln and I were trying out the idea on her.”

“And she said a shotgun wedding is for the best?”

Octavia barks a laugh: “Jesus Christ, Bell, it’s not 1842. Paw’s not out in the backyard with my five older brothers, threatening Lincoln with a fucking blunderbuss. We’re consenting adults who love each other. We may be having a baby a little earlier than we thought, but make no mistake: I was always going to marry Lincoln, and I will marry him whether or not you approve.”

Bellamy’s grinding his teeth so hard a headache starts in his temple when Octavia adds, in a softer tone, “But I hope you will approve, because there’s no one I want there more than you.”

“Of course I’ll be there. Don’t be ridiculous,” Bellamy snaps, “what kind of person do you think I am?”

“An increasingly better one,” Octavia informs him, affection in her voice, “but we both had to grow up someday, right?”

She’s got some ideas already; talks about the location and people to invite in a desultory way before announcing that it’s time for her nap. Bellamy’s still sitting on the couch with his head in his hands when the doorbell rings, and he’s utterly unprepared for an angry Clarke holding her guitar case like it’s trying to get away.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit today, Bellamy. We’re supposed to do _Poison and Wine_ tomorrow, and you still barely know it.” She stomps past him, a jerk of the head: “Grab the other case, let’s get to it.”

“Well, we can’t all have had ten years of guitar and singing lessons and know eight thousand sad love songs by heart, Clarke. I’m just an idiot who wanted to play at bonfires, and now I’m stuck trying to make _you_ look good!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Oh, god, he knows he shouldn’t have said that.

Her back is to him but he doesn’t miss the way she goes straight and tense. She pops the guitar case, voice quietly furious: “I am so fucking sorry that I tried too hard to help you nail an audition. I’m sorry that we’re tangled up in this together, if you find that such a hardship. You need to remember that this started with you. You came to me. I didn’t want--I didn’t even know about--this movie. But now that I’m being called to the floor too, Bellamy, I am not going to let your adolescent temperament screw things up for me. So pick up the goddamned guitar like a professional and let’s rehearse it again.”

Bellamy pretends he doesn’t see it when she wipes her eyes quickly before turning around. His stomach is twisting--hurting Clarke is never his intention, even when he’s feeling under pressure and ten paces behind her. 

One day he’s going to learn not to say whatever comes to his mind, one day he’s going to choose his words more carefully. One day he’ll be as reticent with his criticism as he is with the words I love you.

Or that’s what he tells himself, at least, but he’s already messed up this day, so he just sits with the guitar and tries to remember the words. Thank God the first verse is Clarke’s, and she begins as if nothing’s just happened, she’s not hurt and angry, just closes her eyes and sings: 

_“You only know what I want you to…”_

The simple truth of that line is enough for Bellamy. 

“Wait,” he leans the guitar into the coffee table. “Just, hang on, I need some air.”

He pretends he doesn’t see her chin buckle a little when she nods. 

Pretending is a new specialty of his, it seems. 

He doesn’t slam the balcony door, half expecting her to follow--either to yell at him, or to hash things out, leans out far over the rail to breathe in sea air. 

_Don’t fuck this up._

_This could change the trajectory of our careers._

_We need to root for this couple no matter what happens, no matter what mistakes they make._

He didn’t even know Clarke a few months ago. She was a tabloid curiosity, someone he saw at a party and wondered about. Now she’s...almost his. The combined pressures of being half-secretly in love with her, and presenting the perfect couple face to the world, and being raw and interesting and loving and worth investing in for this chemistry read--it’s adding up. Topping it with his sister’s sudden and complete faith in a woman he’s not even sure will stick around, worrying about the potential effects on Octavia if she’s let down again…

How can you feel like you’re losing control when you never had any in the first place?

Clarke’s curled in over her guitar, playing a country song absentmindedly. She’s so good at making her voice soar over lyrics, it almost doesn’t matter what they’re saying, she makes it sound like it means something terribly important. 

_“Oh, but I’m alright, now that I’m over you  
And the sky is green…  
And the grass is blue.  
Oh and I, I don’t love you  
And the grass is blue…”_

Now, that sounds like it matters in more ways than one.

So Bellamy pries the guitar out of her grip, sits next to her on the couch. “Clarke, I…”

But she covers her face with her hands and bursts into sobs.

And that renders him speechless. 

Clarke gets angry, she gets tough. She says cutting things that are mind-numbingly true and she might shed a tear or two, but this kind of hysterical release is unprecedented. 

“Oh, God, Clarke, I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have said that, I’m just stressed and--”

She lets out a laugh that sounds half-unhinged, “You're stressed?! No, Bellamy, don’t you get it?! I’m terrified of letting you down! Your sister, your career, the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention! You are putting so much pressure on me and I am cool under pressure, Bellamy, but I can’t stand the thought of fucking something up or making things hard for you, because I--”

_Love you. Please, please say it._

“Stop _looking_ at me like that, Bellamy!” Her voice is rising to nearly a shriek.

He snaps his head away, stands, paces. Finally: “I’m never afraid that you’ll let me down.” 

“It doesn’t matter, because I’m afraid! Do you not understand that?!” Her face is red, covered in tears, eyes gigantic and terrified. “Octavia, the chemistry read...us! _Us_ , Bellamy!”

“Yeah, us! So why can’t you say it, Clarke? There’s an us! And it’s more important than anything! I don’t give a shit about the chemistry read when I put it next to how I feel about you!”

“And I don’t give a shit about _anything_ when I put it next to how I feel about you!” Her chest is heaving and she crosses her arms over her chest and rubs her arms.

“Then why can’t you just say you’re in love with me?! We can go from there--we can do it together!”

“Because nothing is that easy! We have lives and responsibilities and talents and careers! We have families! We have reputations--”

She keeps screaming, listing things, but he doesn’t hear her, crosses the room in three quick steps to shake her shoulders. Her mouth closes. 

“Please hear me, Clarke. Please, please listen. I don’t fucking care about that. Not even a little, not when you’re standing here and saying that to you, there’s an us. I don’t want the movie, I don’t want the reputation--mine is shit, anyway--I just want there to be an us.”

“Bellamy,” she sobs unhappily, “there’s an us whether we want one or not, but I told you before, I cannot let myself get caught up in this.”

He frames her face with his hands, wipes her tears with his thumb. “That’s a tragedy, then, because we’re already caught up in it.”

She closes her eyes, tears still slipping down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m not going to pressure you,” and this promise feels like the truth, even if it’s not what he wants to say. 

She puts her hand over his, rubbing her cheek against his palm.

“Can we just...can we please just focus on one thing at a time? Chemistry read. Oscars. Octavia’s wedding. And we can see what happens.”

“I don’t care about the chemistry read,” he growls. “I cannot emphasize how much I don’t care about it right now.”

“But I do! It’s right in front of us, it plays to our strengths! It might be so amazing, Bellamy!”

“ _We_ might be so amazing!” Bellamy thinks he might tear his hair out before this conversation is over. 

“I need you to have patience with me.” She’s begging, and no matter what’s happened, what’s been said that can’t be taken back, Bellamy could never tell Clarke no.

“Yeah, okay, of course.” He folds her into his arms, pulling her close. “Let’s get through tomorrow.”

It’s gotten dark. They play the song a dozen more times, tired, spent. When she leaves he lays in bed with his fingers templed, thumbs pressing on his eyes. 

Mixed in with _I can’t get caught up in this_ there was also _be patient with me_ , and he can give her that. 

In the morning they’ll crash together in the lobby and she’ll clasp his hand and say, “we can do this,” and he’ll say, “together,” and she’ll say it back and that will be his favorite moment with her.

But tonight the words _how I feel about you_ are running through his head and all he can think about is the fact that she said, _I don’t give a shit about anything when I put it next to how I feel about you._

And nothing has ever mattered more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaagh what will it take for Clarke to do more than just talk around her feelings?!
> 
> Fic title and the song Bellamy and Clarke are practicing is Poison and Wine by the Civil Wars which I certainly didn't listen to 500 times at the end of my last relationship, when the last thing he said to me at the airport was "I still love you," and I cried the entire flight. 
> 
> Song Clarke plays when she's sad is Grass Is Blue by Dolly Parton, which was suggested to me by one of the lovely people who commented on another chapter! An absolutely killer song, and thank you for telling me about it!
> 
> Just so y'all know, I was dying of laughter when I wrote Octavia's line about the blunderbuss, but I'm not sure if it's actually funny or if I just amuse myself.
> 
> Coming up: Shotgun wedding! Oscars! Chemistry read dominoes! Delinquents!
> 
> I love your comments more than strawberry wine.


	18. Chapter 18

Just wanted to let y'all know I have to press pause on this story. I'm in the hospital and have to have surgery. I'm not going to die or anything (though I won't mind any good vibes you send my way) but I'm not in a fit state to write. Hopefully I'll be able to pick this back up next week when I don't feel so awful. Y'all take care and we'll all be delighting in these two idiots again very soon!


	19. Temporary, This Place I'm In (permanently won't do this again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bellamy gets bowled over by more than one kind of invitation, and Clarke's just a little...off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I am alive! I've been home for a while, but only just now coming off enough pain meds for my writing to make any sense. Thanks for hanging in there with me, and I hope you like this chapter! Should be up to posting really regularly again, I hope! I really appreciate all your good wishes. This one's a little longer, I hope it was worth the wait.

Clarke doesn’t seem nervous at all, and that feels unfair. Bellamy’s heart’s been in his throat all morning. When the doors open and she clasps his hand and reassures him, “we can do this,” he thinks, _well, maybe you can. Not so sure about me_ , but he tells her, 

“We can do it...together.”

And she smiles back, “Yeah, together.”

His stomach is in knots, though.

But then they get the nod from the same surly crew he saw three days ago, and something subtle shifts in Clarke’s face--

Acting with her is like breathing, like dreaming. 

Like kissing, every move intuitive, every word falling exactly into place. 

Gossip said that Clarke wanted to be in real films, but maybe couldn’t act. Disney Channel and teen movies not exactly being known for the intricacies of the craft, maybe she didn’t have the experience, the vulnerability or just the talent. But with a real script, a real partner? She exhales life into every line. 

She’s been wasted in teen romcoms and Princess Penelope of Pony Isle. She’s been wasted on CW shows. But if the rest of the script is half as good as the scene they’re sharing today, she won’t be wasted in this one--she’ll be fucking perfect, absolutely stellar, a standout.

A star. 

When they make their exit, there are no mumbled criticisms from the table. In fact, no one says a word. The room is still and Clarke’s face is pure triumph; a Valkryie headed back from a successful battle, blood on her cheeks, war in her heart. Bellamy’s numb, brain buzzing, knowing something close to magic has just occurred. 

He’s just created art with Clarke Griffin, and no one will be able to deny that. The movie is theirs, and he knows it. Never been more sure of anything. 

Well, except how he feels about Clarke, whose eyes are shining as she turns to him and says:

“Told you,” in a sing-song tone.

Bellamy can hear her voice from the night before, clogged with tears and nearly hysterical, when she said, _“Stop looking at me like that!”_ but he can’t help but look at her _like that_ when she’s so happy, so proud of herself and him. 

They pause in front of her car, and she’s checking her texts, doesn’t look up:

“Hey, we still on for tomorrow night? I’ve invited literally everyone. Octavia says they’ll duck out early, but otherwise we’ll have a rousing crowd all night. If the movie wins, we’ll get drunk in celebration. If it doesn’t, we’ll drown our sorrows.”

“There won’t be sorrows,” he laughs, arm around her shoulders, “even getting nominated was a surprise and an…”

“Honor? God, don’t be so Hollywood.” Clarke takes the free hand hanging across her chest, laces her fingers through his, squeezes a little. “It’s okay if you’re disappointed. I would be.”

“No, no, it’s just that...I’m really excited about _this_ ,” he waves a hand towards the building, “I don’t think anything could bring me down.”

“That’s good. ‘Cause Octavia’s bringing her wedding binder to get some help from me and Harper, so...I need you on your best behavior, alright?”

Bellamy blushes slightly. “Yeah, I will be. Don’t worry. No Blake fights in your living room.”

“Paps hang around this place like crazy,” Clarke says, quiet and close. “I know it’s a hardship and all, but you should kiss me goodbye.” 

He laughs, tilts her chin, kisses her gently--”Yeah, Clarke. Always a hardship to be close to you.”

She tastes like cinnamon gum when their lips meet, and she breathes against him for a beat before they pull apart. There’s something in her face--something he can’t figure out--and then she pulls him back for one more kiss and he puts a finger through her belt loops to pull her hips to his, and he’s not sure what’s happening but it doesn’t feel like their normal paparazzi kiss.

When she finally breaks away, her face is a little pink but she looks happy. Maybe? Possibly. 

“See you tomorrow, then?” She’s got a half smile, heavy lidded eyes, like she’s thinking about things she’d never admit to.

So Bellamy pulls her back by the belt loops, whispers, “Are we acting suitably amorous?” And kisses her again because why the hell not? There’s a soft edge of giddiness when she melts against him and says, lips so close to his, 

“Maybe just a little more, someone’s snapping pictures close to the door…” because she always needs an excuse, this one, she can never just let things be. 

“And if they weren’t?” He presses.

“I’d still want this.” She admits, deeply pink now, one last peck against his cheek. “Now let me go, Niylah’s meeting me at Costco in…” a glance at her beat-up watch. Her dad’s, she’d told him, and she always wears it to auditions for good luck. “Uh, fifteen minutes ago, and don’t think I won’t blame that on you.”

When they’ve both finally gotten in their cars, he glances over at her. She’s fiddling with the radio, a fond smile on her face, and he memorizes her expression, the husky sound of her voice when she confessed that she’d still want him, agreement or none, public or not, paparazzi or none.

Pair it with _“I don’t give a shit about anything when I put it next to how I feel about you,”_ and...something’s changing.

He’s not alone in this mess anymore.

Clarke’s right there with him. 

Bellamy’s number one trick for getting through days where everything that’s happening, will happen at night, is to sleep til the last possible minute. So when his phone starts ringing the first time, he lets it go to voicemail. 

But it rings again.

And again.

When he picks it up he realizes that he should have ten minutes ago: It’s Pike, the director of the very movie up for an award tonight, and he must be an unhinged kind of desperate because Bellamy barely knows him, hasn’t seen or heard from him since _Wake Me Up_ finished filming. 

He’s still clearing his throat when Pike launches in: 

“How fast can you get a decent looking tux, Blake?”

“Huh?” Is all Bellamy can manage.

The story is a little ridiculous: Half the cast and crew were at a party last night, and everyone has the worst kind of food poisoning imaginable. Pike wasn’t there, not really the partying type, so he’s okay, and a couple of people are trying to pull it together (but may or may not actually be able to) but Bellamy is next in line for an invitation, and can he please bring that pretty blonde girl he’s been seeing, to fill out the table? She, at least, is somewhat famous. 

Bellamy ignores the slight insult to his level of fame, agrees hastily, takes down details, and calls Clarke.

He echoes Pike as soon as she picks up:

“How fast can you get a dress? Like, a vaguely amazing one? And someone to fix your hair? And cancel the party? Or move it to another day? Something?”

The way she laughs isn’t exactly what he expected. 

“Don’t worry about me, I can pull everything together. I can pull yours together, too--grab a pen, write down this address, and I’ll call them and tell them to be expecting you.”

“Won’t everyone be completely busy already?”

“No one’s ever too busy for me, Bellamy.”

He snorts at her confidence.

“I’ll tell them Gucci, but they’ll want to give you something that’s one of a kind or rare... People will be looking at you, because the story of the cast getting sick will be all over the place. And you look like a model anyway, with those cheekbones. So just, go, go, go, they should be able to fit you right away.”

“Will I see you there?”

“No...I have something perfect already, and I’ll need to get my hair and makeup done.” 

“But, Clarke--”

“Bellamy, just trust me, okay? Uh, the stylist’s name is Karina, and she’ll take really good care of you, I promise.”

Quick agreements are made, and Clarke hasn’t even hung up yet when she yells, “NIYLAH!” at the top of her lungs, shattering Bellamy’s eardrums.

Harper coordinates a limo from an assistant whose actor isn’t going now--and by the look on her face, that person described their boss’s illness in detail--and the day is a blur from there. Karina is sweet but opinionated, and she talks Bellamy into a daring black-on-black look with velvet lapels and shimmery black embroidery around the cuffs. The pants are skinny enough that he’s not sure he’ll be able to sit comfortably in them, but when he texts a snapshot to Clarke she writes back, 

“Perfect!” So he lays down his credit card and tries not to think about how painful the payment’s going to be this month. 

It’s good that he doesn’t have time to think, and mostly focuses his energy on freaking out once he gets in the limo. But when he pulls up to Clarke’s house and she comes out, his mouth drops open like he’s never seen her before. 

Clarke’s hair is woven into a complicated french braid that sits like a wreath framing her face. There’s a tiny headband of stars at the crown. Her dress a gorgeous v-neck with a wide, stiff tulle skirt, the bodice embroidered with tiny silver stars. The straps are cinched at the shoulder with silver ribbons. She looks like a celestial queen, and he has no idea how she managed to pull this vision off in time. 

Bellamy swallows hard. 

“You look…” his head’s empty, not a thought to be found. 

“You, too,” she fills in, giving him a smile that seems a bit shy. 

He’s seen Clarke in a myriad of get-ups at this point, but each time he sees her--in anything from yoga wear to full-on ballgown--it still makes his heart beat a little faster.

The night seems to drag in a bit of a blur. Clarke makes a sunny impression on the few members of cast and crew who managed to struggle in with green faces and anti-nausea prescriptions. Pike seems to love her, which is interesting coming from the most exacting director Bellamy’s ever worked with. The movie doesn’t win (he never thought it would) but friends of Clarke’s find them and sweep them into afterparties, one after another, Bellamy drunker than he has been in ages. They bump into Lexa at one point, and Bellamy braces for an argument, but she merely drapes herself across Clarke for the next hour, whispering into Clarke’s hair.

They do make a lovely couple, but aesthetics aren’t everything, and Clarke gently extricates herself from Lexa eventually. There’ll be pictures of this in the morning, Bellamy knows, and he makes a point to kiss the exposed skin of Clarke’s neck in a particularly intimate manner. 

_Mine_ , his pointed look says to Lexa. _Mine, and not yours, and I’m keeping her. Your chance is over._

Clarke leans back against him, distractedly touching his cheek.

“You as tired as I am?” He asks her, and she nods. 

“Want to go back to my place? I bought so much food for the party, and no one’s coming until tomorrow, now.”

They find themselves in formal wear in the kitchen, eating off a charcuterie board and drinking bottled water, hoping to ward off hangovers. (Not a fucking chance, actually, given that it’s nearly four in the morning already and they’re still not in bed, but Bellamy will pretend anyway.) Clarke’s pulling bobby pins out of every place possible in her hair, then the headband, and finally undoing the braid completely. Bellamy tangles his fingers at the base of her skull, rubbing, and she sags against the counter. 

“Not to complain, but I’m exhausted. This isn’t what I was expecting when I woke up this morning.”

“Me either,” he laughs. “Like, at all. I’m secretly a little glad we didn’t win, because I definitely feel like those guys would have deserved to be there, not me. And Pike had this whole social justice speech worked up...I don’t feel like I’m the one who should be standing next to him when he lets that rip.”

“Why not?” Clarke’s got her eyes on his, and he has a feeling no one’s going to rescue him like Kane did the night of Charlotte’s birthday party.

He pulls away, and he can feel her whole body follow his, like she wants to be close, still, but this topic makes him uncomfortable and half-mad even at the best of times. 

“I mean...you know...I’m totally disconnected from my heritage. I’m not comfortable with being...a spokesperson or an example, anything like that. I can’t pretend to be some kind of role model for social justice when I just try to skate by as white, or like, _other_ , most of the time.” Not one of his more polished moments, that little speech. He'll have to count on Clarke to understand. 

Clarke fluffs her hair, uses her fingers to pull it back from her face. 

“Is that how you want it to be? Not knowing anything, and just...skating by? As you put it. Because Niylah’s hobby is genealogy. She can help you find your dad’s family.”

“I feel like, uh, like if he had wanted to know me before he died, he would have.”

“Come upstairs, help me get this dress off. I can barely breathe.”

Bellamy makes the mistake of thinking the conversation is over. 

It’s not. 

When her back is to him and he’s unbuttoning the tiny, cloth covered buttons that go all the way down her spine, she continues, 

“You never told me that he died.” 

He shrugs, even though she can’t see him. It was a tiny heartbreak in the middle of a life full of tiny heartbreaks, and he hadn’t had the time nor the inclination to process the news. 

It might’ve been pulling him to pieces the night he got fucked up with Murphy and indistinguishable male number two. The night before he met Clarke. 

The night before his entire life changed.

“It was about a year ago. And I mean, I never knew him, but I have these cousins...they reached out. Sent me a couple of emails, a bunch of phone numbers. I guess my grandmother really wanted to know me. He was her favorite, they said.”

“Her favorite, having a child he doesn’t support, living on a different continent. God, it’s always the same way in families, isn’t it?” She’s half-muttering to herself, and he doesn’t know who or what she’s thinking about. “Bellamy, if you want to reach out to her...I mean, I’ll support you.”

“It’s just, Octavia--”

Clarke runs right over him, it’s becoming a bad habit of hers: 

“And I know Octavia would too. Family seems more important than ever when women get pregnant. She’ll be really happy for you if it goes well.”

Bellamy’s quiet as Clarke steps out of the dress, moves towards the closet to hang it up, just a slip skirt over her lacy bustier and panties. Her hair is wild, she looks impossibly sexy, and he wishes for a fleeting moment that she wouldn’t do this, that she would go into another room or something, because dear God, he doesn’t want to talk about his father or other emotional subjects, he wants to throw her on the bed and--

But she’s made it clear: not now. They’re not there, no matter that they stole extra kisses in the parking lot yesterday, no matter that they’re going to be caught up in this faux-relationship for god knows how long if they get this movie, no matter that they’re both clearly in love or falling, she doesn’t want to go there. So he focuses on her face instead, her clear blue eyes, the soft roundness of her chin. 

“Neither Octavia nor I have any idea who her father is. It feels like...if I get involved with my extended family, she might be upset or jealous, especially now. And especially because I’m sure it’s just some asshole who came along one night and...I mean, you know the history.”

“Maybe not. I mean, a one-night-stand, sure. But maybe not the situation you’re imagining, and maybe your mom never told him she was pregnant. I know a private detective--”

“Clarke, Christ, I don’t need you to solve this problem for me.”

“Charmaine is the best in the business, and she does this kind of stuff for a living. If the results are bad you won’t even have to tell her.” Clarke gives a little shrug.

Why does she have to be standing in front of him, barely-dressed, eyes the size of saucers and with him still half-drunk, as she proposes an easy answer to cover the excuses he’s made for the past year? It’s hard to tell her no when he’s drunk--it’s _always_ hard to tell her no, damn it. 

“You’re giving me that look again,” she tells him, catching her lip between her teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he replies, shakes his head, tries to change his expression. 

Clarke tries to suppress a half smile, can’t. Shakes out of her slip, steps toward him. 

“What if this time I don’t want you to stop?”

“Clarke, we just had a blow-up fight about this…”

“What if...just for tonight…?”

He steps back from her. 

“We’re drunk.”

“You might be tipsy. I’m not.”

“I don’t want to--you said this could ruin everything, and I don’t want to ruin everything.”

“You’re happy only getting half of me?” Clarke tilts her head. “Are you happy with how things are right now?”

It’s a trick question, he’s pretty sure. And even half-drunk he knows there isn’t a right answer, and he’s not sure why Clarke is playing games right now. He tries to read her face, her body language, but can’t. 

And it starts to make him a little angry. 

“What the hell is this, Clarke? You spend all your time terrified that having a real relationship is going to ruin everything--but then you kiss me like you did yesterday and you’re here ready to jump from a serious conversation to bed and I don’t get it! At best you’re sending mixed signals, at worst you’re playing games with me on purpose. What’s going on in your brain?” 

“Maybe I’m tired of being the one to talk sense all the time.” Clarke’s expression has changed, tight around the eyes again, the way she looks when she’s unhappy with the past, with things she can’t change. “Maybe I just want to be able to...to...have you, in the same way you want to have me. And I keep not being able to have you, because I have to be smart and businesslike and protect my heart because what if you’re only the next Finn, the next Lexa? What if you’re only pretending, like we’re supposed to be doing? We’re supposed to get home, and go directly to our rooms and not talk to each other again until we have to, right? And instead we’re this. We’re us. And it’s so much pressure, but I...” She makes a gesture between them, balls the hem of his shirt in her fist. 

“Clarke…” he pushes her hair back from her face. “Clarke, listen.”

“No. I...I want to be more of an us. Not less. I saw that look you gave Lexa tonight. You’re not faking. I’m...I’m fairly certain.” The insecurity in her voice is too much, another heartbreak. 

He nods, kisses her forehead. “It’s my turn to talk sense, then. Can we just--sleep? I feel like we should have this conversation sometime that’s not five in the morning, and when I’m not still kind of soused.”

Bellamy’s not sure why she looks slightly crushed, but she nods back and puts on her pajamas. He retrieves his and crawls into her bed. She lays into the hollow next to his body and he wraps an arm around her, curling his palm against her bare stomach. The last thing he says, Bellamy’s not even sure she hears. 

But he needs her to know, has to say it before he can go to sleep.

“I can’t fake anything with you, Clarke.”

He thinks the small noise she makes in return means that she believes him.

But he’s not sure what’s going on in her mind at all, and that’s somehow scarier than when he knew she wasn’t ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baaaaaabes I missed you all so much, I really did.
> 
> Chapter title from Factory by Band of Horses, one of my absolute favorite bands/songs.
> 
> What's going on in Clarke's mind this chapter? Is this a step forward, or back?
> 
> Coming up: a postponed party (and its fallout), Octavia's wedding planning, and don't think I forgot about the Cartier campaign!
> 
> I'm trying to make a certain chapter land on Valentine's Day, but no promises. No matter how much I plan them, the characters and the chapters seem to land where they want, not where I want!
> 
> I love your comments more than chocolate covered strawberries.


	20. The Weight of Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke has nightmares, Bellamy has doubts, and several people lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy thinks too much, he really does. 
> 
> Um, there's a death that took place in the past in this chapter. I don't have the character in my tags because they are only mentioned in past tense. If you're worried about the general health of a favorite character that I have *not* mentioned in this fic so far, please feel free to look at the end notes.

Bellamy tried to get up at two, but Clarke pulled him back down with a mewling sound, 

“No, not yet.”

And she was there in the bed, to wake up with, to hold onto. His, for a little while, and he couldn’t let go of that, so he fell back into the warm cocoon of her body and started to dream again. 

When Octavia was little, she thought her dreams were the most interesting thing in the world. She’d describe them with every detail, going on for hours sometimes--horses, dragons, fairies, a mother who stayed home to take care of her when she had a fever. (It was her brother who stayed home, gave her an ice bath when the temperature got too high, tried to console her with canned chicken noodle soup Jasper lifted from the grocery store. But she was sure it had been Aurora.)

But Bellamy’s never been a huge dreamer, often falling into a black sleep, never remembering anything. Even next to Clarke, her scent in his nose, he barely imagines a thing, mostly just the way she looks when she’s dancing, the smile that drifts across her face when he twirls her around and around. 

Bellamy’s always considered his lack of dreams a small blessing, especially when he wakes up in the early evening to Clarke tossing and turning. She shifts, arms thrown above her head, mumbling: 

“Can you? Can you?” Her face is scrunched up. “Murphy, you’re--please--can you? I--”

“Clarke, hey, wake up.” He touches her shoulder. “I think you’re--”

“Can you-- _Emori_!!!” Her voice is nearly a scream. She sits straight up, knuckles white on the blanket hem, chest heaving, eyes wide and unblinking, filled with tears. 

“Holy shit…” Bellamy stares, reaches out to soothe her. “Are you okay? That sounded like a killer nightmare.”

She scrambles away from his touch towards the headboard, holds her hands out, pants, “Don’t touch me!”

He’s never seen her so upset, so unreachable. 

“Clarke…” Bellamy doesn’t actually know what to say, feels unsteady. “Hey,” her eyes are far away. “Come back, come back to me, okay? It was just a dream.” 

She finally focuses on his face, but her expression is haunted. “No. It wasn’t.”

With that, she swipes her phone from the nightstand and locks herself in the bathroom. Bellamy hears her squeak, “Wells?” on the edge of a hysterical sob, and leaves the room. He can’t hear her like that, especially not knowing why or what to do to help. 

It’s barely twenty minutes of pacing in the hall before he hears Murphy let himself in. He jogs up the stairs, finds Bellamy at the top, says, “Where is she?”

“Bathroom.”

“You should go,” Murphy says, and there’s a bit of kindness in his voice. “She’s not gonna want to talk to you about this.”

Bellamy nods, Murphy drifts past him, but--”Murphy?”

“Yeah?” He’s distracted, worried, irritated. 

“Who’s Emori?”

Murphy’s face shutters in an instant, triggering a memory--Clarke when Bellamy’d asked, _“What did you give Murphy for his golden birthday?”_

She’d said, _“He didn’t have one,_ ” in a tone of voice that brooked no further questions.

“She was Clarke’s best friend when we were younger,” Murphy’s tone is closed: no more questions, go home, leave us alone. 

Bellamy knows that’s not the answer, not the entire one--a half truth, or maybe even a smaller fraction than that. 

There’s no reason for Clarke not to be honest. Hell, he’s laid his life bare for her, their relationship started because he’d fucked up beyond a normal, acceptable amount. She knows the mistakes he’s made with Octavia, and at every turn she has suggested he go easy on himself and try, try, try to start over. 

So what’s so awful that she’d reach for her childhood friends and shut him out, both metaphorically and physically?

A second memory: Murphy at Clarke’s house, saying, “ _I was supposed to be looking out for someone, but I was too caught up in my own bullshit. That person got hurt...I realized that if I was going down I’d be taking people with me. I’d be taking Clarke with me.”_

Is Emori the person Murphy was supposed to be looking out for?

And was Clarke there when Emori got hurt?

None of Bellamy’s business, in the end. None of his business at all, aside from the fact that he wants to be there for Clarke, aside from the fact that he knows what it’s like to drown in guilt, aside from the fact that Clarke said, “ _I don’t want us to start with lies or social niceties between us._ ”

But isn’t she entitled to a secret--isn’t she entitled to a level of privacy? 

Hasn’t she been a stripped-down, bare amount of honest with him? 

He doesn’t know, actually. The line of Poison and Wine that he identified with the most heavily was when Clarke sang, “ _you only know what I want you to._ ” Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t know her at all--can’t guess what she wants--isn’t sure how she feels. 

Murphy’s giving him a look, one like he knows what Bellamy is thinking, one like he’d die to keep Clarke’s secrets, one like lying would be as easy as breathing if the lying would protect his best friend.

So Bellamy just says that he’s going to go home and shower, for Clarke to let him know if she still wants to have the party, for her to call if she wants to talk--and Murphy’s already nodding and pushing away on his toes--doesn’t care, couldn’t care, terribly unimportant when Clarke is on her ass in the bathroom sobbing.

And it is all very unimportant from Murphy’s perspective, Bellamy knows that, so he gathers his things. The tux is in a heap on Clarke’s bedroom floor, and he’ll leave it for now. 

_Emori_. On his drive home he wonders how to spell it. 

Because he’s going to find out what the hell happened to her. 

Other things come first, though. Octavia texting about an appointment to find out if she’s having a boy or a girl, Kane calling to say that there might be one more audition expected for the movie producers who are interested in Bellamy and Clarke, Raven texting to ask if Bellamy knows if Murphy will be at the party tonight. 

Dear Lord, he doesn’t want to be in the middle of THAT train wreck, texts back:

**BB: Not sure--hope you’re coming either way.**

**RR: As your publicist, I’m terribly sorry your movie didn’t win. But as your friend--Getting drunk and watching you lose? Not gonna miss that.**

She’s teasing, probably, hopefully. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. 

Actually, now that Bellamy thinks about it, Raven seems to know everyone in Hollywood at all times. Sometimes she’ll mention a star who’s been famous for ages and act like she knew them BTWF. (Before They Were Famous.)

So maybe--

Standing half dressed after his shower he texts so fast his fingers are flying.

**BB: Hey--do you know anyone named Emori?**

**RR: Last name?**

**BB: First name, I think?**

**RR: Either way, I don’t think so. It’s pretty original, I’d remember it. Sure they’re an actor?**

No. Because he’s not sure of anything, only a vague awareness that Emori exists, and she’s somehow important. So he blows the question off with Raven, acting like it’s not important, and he isn’t sure she’s convinced but a group text from Clarke comes through, reminding them all that they’re supposed to be at her place in an hour, and don’t be “Hollywood Late.”

He takes a second to text her back,

**BB: Feeling better?**

**CG: Fine, thanks. Just a nightmare I’ve had for years, puts me out of sorts! No worries. See you soon. <3**

Lies.

He’s never thought of Clarke as a dishonest person, in fact considers her brutally honest at times. It was one of the first things Harper said about her, that Clarke’s up-front about her opinions, and Bellamy considers that a virtue of honest people, especially in LA, where people will smile in your face and say they loved your last movie, no matter how universally it was panned, no matter how much your agent shrieks over your decision to take the role, no matter if you needed fifteen Xanax a day to get through filming the pile of shit. 

No matter if it was terrible, just absolutely awful, and every time anyone reminds you of it you blush like a schoolboy in the girls’ locker room. 

For Bellamy, that movie is _Sharpen_ , and luckily he only has one--more experienced actors can have more, can have dozens. He thinks that the combination of the brutally honest trio: Kane, Harper, and Raven, has kept him generally on point. Not many of his roles have been important, but not many of them have been awful, either. 

So Clarke’s opinions and her honesty are important, are necessary, are required, if they want to have a friendship, and if they want to have more--

And he does want to have more.

Raven’s dithering in the street next to her motorcycle when he parks behind her, and she yanks open the Rover’s passenger-side door and climbs in.

“Why’d you ask me about Emori?” She demands immediately, eyes curious and face already critical. 

“What? I heard it in passing, is all, and I was wondering who it was.”

“Why are you lying to me, Bellamy?” Her fingers are wound around her phone tightly, she nearly looks like she might break it. “I thought it was weird that I’d never heard of her--I know everyone--so I did a little research.”

She passes over the phone, unlocks it. 

There’s a memorial page for someone named Emori Sanderson pulled up, effusive words about a pretty girl with almond shaped eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. Raven drags her finger across the phone, next screen, shots of Clarke and Murphy leaving Westwood Memorial Park, holding hands, giant sunglasses covering Clarke’s face, Murphy with a sling over his dark suit. Wells only a few steps behind them. 

Next screen, an article about a “tragic car accident” in which John Murphy, child star, was injured and Emori Sanderson, heiress, close friend of Disney Icon Clarke Griffin, was killed. A picture of Emori and Murphy at a party is included then another of Clarke with an arm around Emori, wearing matching perfect smiles and scrunched noses. 

The name of the driver isn’t mentioned, and how much money must that have cost?

And who, exactly, paid it?

“I can’t think about this right now,” Bellamy says. 

Raven’s eyes are huge and dark in the night, and she says, “I need to know if...what the hell is going on, Blake?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Clarke had a nightmare and said this girl’s name. If she died in a car accident and Clarke and Murphy were there, it’s totally understandable now.”

That’s a lie, to himself, to Raven. Clarke’s reaction didn’t feel like a regular nightmare, but he doesn’t want Raven to get involved in this, doesn’t know what she might think or say to Murphy, should have never brought it up.

“It’s fine, Raven, don’t worry about it. Seriously. I was just curious, and Clarke was so upset I didn’t want to ask her about it. Can you just...not say anything to anyone for me, please?”  
Raven regards him with an annoyed expression, quickly followed by an incredibly curious one:

“Why are you trying to act your way out of this, Bellamy Blake? Do you think I’m stupid? You’re talented enough when the camera’s on but face to face? Completely awful liar. Like...wow.”

“Fine! She had a nightmare, she was talking in her sleep, and she totally fucking flipped out! Couldn’t calm her down, Murphy had to come over and talk her off a ledge. But I don’t want you to say a word to Murphy, because I don’t want it to seem like I didn’t believe her excuses. Okay? Christ, Raven. Just do me this favor, leave it be.”

She studies his face intently; he notices for the first time that she’s put in extra effort. Her hair has a lovely french braid on one side, everything else is curled in big loose curls. She’s wearing eyeliner and lip gloss, a low-cut top. 

“You look really nice,” he mumbles lamely. 

“Ugh, don’t flatter me. I’ll keep your little secret.”

Murphy screeches to a halt in front of Clarke’s, opening the garage and parking inside like he lives there, too. When he saunters out, closing the door and strolling up the lane, he sees Raven getting out of Bellamy’s Rover. 

Bellamy lays his head on the wheel for a minute, makes a note on his phone with the name “Emori Sanderson” and then heaves himself out of the truck. Murphy is speaking to Raven close to her face, trails his finger down her jaw, then jerks back when Bellamy slams the door. 

It seems like Murphy’s not breathing as Bellamy approaches, his eyes are slightly narrowed, but Bellamy makes his entire body casual, says an affable, “Heya,” and blows between them to go through the unlocked front door. 

Harper’s in the open kitchen, and she gives him a cheery wave as she carefully lays little pieces of cheese down on a platter. Clarke’s dumping a tupperware of cut fruit into a fancy, cut-glass bowl. 

Jasper’s lolling on the couch, Monty’s doing something with the TV, Miller and Jackson are standing on the back porch having a quiet, intimate conversation. 

Octavia is plumped down on the most comfortable chair available in a loose but trendy dress, and Bellamy thinks that her face is filling out, Maya’s putting little plates on the table, Lincoln’s leaning against the oven and stirring--something? When did this become a five-course dinner?

Wells, Murphy, and Raven come in as a talkative trio, and Bellamy wonders, not for the first time, what Wells’s part was in the car accident, why he was the first person Clarke called this morning. 

Bellamy tries to blow it off again--strolls up to Clarke as if they parted ways happily a few hours ago, puts an arm around her waist and kisses her cheek.

Like normal. He wants it to be normal. Please, Jesus and all the saints, let it be normal. 

She turns her face, kisses him lightly on the lips, gives him a brilliant smile. “Hey, handsome. How was your evening?”

“Good, tons of texts and phone calls--have you talked to Kane? They might want us to go in again…”

“Yeah, I spoke to him. You okay with that?”

Bellamy rubs the back of his neck. 

“A little irritated, if we’re being honest. Felt pretty perfect last time, didn’t it?”

A slight flush on Clarke’s cheek as she remembers that morning: “Oh, yeah, but who knows what it is they’re looking for, you know? We’ll go in, do it again, it’ll be great again, all will be convinced.” She makes a little _wrap it up_ gesture with the fruit tongs. “No big deal, Bellamy. Don’t worry about it.”

Harper leaves the kitchen, Lincoln hauls his pot to the table, Bellamy puts his mouth close to Clarke’s ear: “Sure you’re okay?”

“Of course,” she replies, all clear blue eyes, relaxed cheeks. 

He stares at her for a second. He could let it be, he could let it go, he could let Clarke lie and in a few days he could just pretend he’d never fucking heard the name Emori…

_No lies or social niceties between us_ , she’d said.

_If you think I could sit here and lie to your face you’re overestimating me,_ she’d said.

“Pinky swear?” he asks, and watches her jaw work for a second, watches her hands fist, her eyes cloud over. 

“Fuck you, Bellamy,” she hisses, yanking away from him. 

No one’s watching, the TV is loud, and Jasper’s talking ninety to nothing about the film that did end up sweeping, a WWII flick about Japanese Internment Camps. Raven’s giggling in a corner with Murphy and a giant glass of wine.

Bellamy leans in close. “I want to believe you’re fine, but you’re not. Why would you lie to my face?”

“It was a nightmare, Bellamy. It gave me a scare and I freaked out. Stop trying to read so much into it--stop trying to be the hero. Haven’t you ever had a dream that stayed with you in the worst way?”

“No, and I’ve definitely never talked in my sleep until I screamed, either, so what the hell is going on with you?”

He wanted it to be normal.

But it wasn’t, and he won’t pretend. 

“If you care about me, Bellamy, you’ll let this one go, please.”

“If I’d asked you last night, would you have told me?”

Bellamy knows, as soon as it’s out of his mouth, that he should not have said that. That it’s an unfair suggestion, Clarke was vulnerable to him in that moment, and he knows perfectly well that she will not want to remember it after this morning. 

He knows, but it falls out of his mouth anyway.

And Clarke, for all her actressing, for all her innocent blue eyes, for all that their friends are a scant five feet away, is not going to take having her vulnerability spat back out at her in this manner. He watches her put her back to the counter, breathe in through her nose, close her eyes and--

Raven slaps Murphy across the room from Bellamy, throws her wine in his face followed by the glass, says very clearly, “You’re a dick, John Murphy!” and stomps past the crowd and out the door. 

The entire house is silent for a minute, then Clarke clears her throat. 

“You should go after her, Bellamy.”

“I--you should, not me. Girlfriends and all that,” Bellamy’s nearly whining, does not want to get involved in Raven’s love life. 

The look Clarke gives him makes her meaning clear: _get out_. “You should, you know her a lot better than I do.” 

Harper’s already through the doorway, calling, “Raven, Raven, what on earth--” 

Bellamy mutters: “You know what, Clarke? Whatever the hell you want. Or should I say what you want _right now_? Seems really changeable, that does. Really inconsistent.”

“Do you want me to pinky swear about whether or not I want you gone right fucking now, Bellamy?” Clarke shoulders past him, yanks the door wide open, makes an expansive gesture, “get out. Take Raven home, get a beer, whatever the fuck you do when you’re not standing in my kitchen trying to manipulate me!”

Wells is at Bellamy’s elbow, a gentle touch, “hey, man, I think Clarke’s done for tonight, so--”

Bellamy pulls away, doesn’t look at his friends--he’s already sure they’re open-mouthed. Puts his hands up. 

“Got it. Leaving,” and stalks past Clarke, “sorry my concern is such a burden to you, Clarke. Sorry honesty is out of the question--even though you swore it was the most important thing five months ago.”

The sound of the door crashing behind him is nearly deafening. Harper’s head jerks up from where she’s got her arm around Raven, gives Bellamy a quizzical look. 

Harper jogs up the lawn, says, “Bellamy, pull your shit together. Raven’s really upset--you need to take her home. Don’t let her get on that stupid bike. Like...now.”

“Take your damn helmet off, Reyes!” Bellamy yells across the grass, stomping past Harper without a word, grabbing Raven’s arm roughly and pulling her towards the Rover. 

“Bellamy--stop--let go!” She protests, and she’s angry, tough and athletic but her strength is no match for the older, taller Blake. 

“Raven, get in the damn truck. Now.”

“But my bike--”

“I’ll bring you back here to get it tomorrow, okay? But for right now, let’s go get a drink, let’s get out of here, let’s--”

“Okay,” she says in a small voice. “Okay, Bellamy. Let’s get a drink.”

It takes him a minute when he gets in the driver’s seat to feel like he’s in control of something. He puts his forehead against the wheel, tries slow breathing. Raven’s not an affectionate person--sits silently in the passenger seat, tears slowly slipping down her cheeks. 

Bellamy starts the Rover. “What did he say to you?”

“Something shitty,” she mumbles. “Something unkind, about Finn.”

If Bellamy was looking for a target, Finn would be an excellent one. He did a number on Clarke, made her distrustful, made her scared. Bellamy just didn’t know how scared, how distrustful, until today--and that isn’t exactly Clarke’s fault, but he’s angrier than he ever knew he could be at her, and finds himself flooring the Rover on his way to Raven’s favorite dive bar.

Bellamy hears Raven say, “hey, slow down--” and he hears her scream, the sound of grating metal drowning out everything, and then he remembers nothing, nothing at all--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Emori. I honestly love her, and love Memori, but this bit of the story was non-negotiable from the jump! 
> 
> Literally everyone in Hollywood has a secret--we'll find out soon enough what Clarke's is. 
> 
> I very specifically chose the term "actressing" for Clarke because I'm Southern and when we women pretend things--pretend they're fine, pretend shit's okay when it's not, and just generally put on a show, it's called "actressin'" in the deepest, most ridiculous accent you can imagine. A bit different from your normal acting, you know?
> 
> Y'all should have seen me scratching through my notes and previous chapters to find the exact wording on the breadcrumbs I left. I'm losing it writing this damn fic, and there's still ten chapters to go!
> 
> I will publish the next chapter come hell or high water tomorrow because it's Valentine's Day, dammit, and I worked HARD to make that chapter line up with the holiday! (This one's way longer than usual because of it!)
> 
> Love your comments more than fruit platters. <3


	21. You Would Kill For This (just a little bit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clarke makes some confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day, my sweet readers! It's only 9pm Texas time so I'm still managing to post this on the day, even if it's a little bit of a technicality. 
> 
> Warning: Frank discussion about car accidents and their consequences on two levels in this chapter. No body horror, but there is a description of injuries.

Bellamy’s sure he’s drowning.

He’s never drowned, of course, but this is what it must feel like: a struggle to breathe, to move. A weight on his chest like a two-ton safe, and when he tries to draw air in, he can’t.

Everything hurts, every bone, every bit of skin, and he can’t breathe, so he must be drowning, right? 

There’s a bed, he thinks. There’s a bed and he’s in it, but he doesn’t remember why. 

He’d happily pay someone a million dollars if only they’d pry his eyes open and help him ask someone, anyone, where he is and what’s happened. 

Sometimes he hears voices, sometimes there are beeps. The beeps are much more steady, the voices thready and in-and-out. 

He can’t remember, can’t remember, can’t remember--until he opens his eyes to see a familiar spill of blonde curls across the side of a white hospital bed. Clarke’s pulled up a chair to sit right next to him, both hands on his right arm, dark circles under her eyes, she’s sleeping, but stirs as soon as he shifts.

He touches her hair, her cheek. Her chin buckles, and she whispers, “Fuck, Bellamy…”

Everything comes back in a rush, their fight, Raven’s scream, the sound of the cars colliding, and he demands foggily, “Raven?”

Clarke’s got her hand in his, she squeezes. Her face is troubled. “Alive. But...not good.”

“I wasn’t drunk,” he tells her, tries to sit up, but it hurts too much, and he settles back against the pillow, ashen-faced. “I swear I wasn’t.”

“I know, I know. The driver who hit you, was, blew through a red light, right into the passenger side. The Rover was going too fast, it flipped...Bellamy, you both nearly died right there on the street.” She lets go of his hand and covers her face, a small sob escaping. “I thought I lost you, Jesus Christ, and I am so, so sorry for how I behaved that night…”

“Clarke…” he reaches for her hair, hand heavy. “It’s not important.” A shift in the bed. “How long have I been here?”

“Today’s the fourth day,” she says, and it’s nearly a whisper. No wonder she looks so exhausted, no wonder she’s pale and her eyes are bruises against near-white skin.

“Where’s my sister?” His eyes are closing already, Clarke smoothes the blankets.

“She’s been here. Lincoln and I convinced her to go home, take a nap. It’s been a lot for someone early on in their pregnancy. She’ll be back later today...why don’t you rest til then?”

“Clarke, I…”

“It’s fine, Bellamy. Whatever it is, we can talk about it later.”

He’s always hated the hospital, always associated it with his mother dying, always found its halls haunted and their rooms full of ghosts. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” he tells her, “please don’t leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” She tightens her grip on his wrist. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And she is, cheek against her upper arm, one hand fisted in the blankets, the other still on his wrist. Eyelids fluttering, not a peaceful sleep by any means, and yet he’s loath to wake her. Four days, and he knows without asking that she’s been here the entire time. 

Bellamy feels a little less groggy this go-round, a little more like himself. Unfortunately that comes with more pain and a lot of worry about Raven. He twists his hand to run his thumb over Clarke’s, and she makes a small noise but doesn’t wake. 

Murphy startles him, striding into the room with two coffees, and Bellamy jerks--regrets moving--and nods when Murphy puts a finger over his lips. Murphy quietly drags a chair to the bed, puts the coffees down, leans close to Bellamy. 

“You want me to get a nurse?”

Bellamy tries to shake his head, nope, not a good idea. “No, uh. Not yet.”

It’s silly, the way they’re speaking in stage whispers, but Bellamy doesn’t want to wake Clarke. She looks so tired, so fragile, and he can’t imagine the feeling of things being opposite: of him being the one to wait for her to wake up and be some semblance of okay. 

“You look like shit, Blake, but you’re going to be okay.”

“Do you know about Raven?” Bellamy rubs his eyes with his opposite hand, “Clarke didn’t give me any details, just said she’s not good.”

Murphy clenches his jaw. It occurs to Bellamy that Murphy looks nearly as exhausted as Clarke, deep black circles under his eyes, a bruise along his chin. He looks away.

“She uh...she was pinned in the truck, upside down, for a long time. Her hip was dislocated, femur broken...there’s nerve damage...right now they’re saying that we’ll have to wait and see, but Clarke got Jackson in here and he says the truth is, she may not walk again. And I don’t…”

Murphy chokes off the sentence. There’s more emotion in his face than Bellamy’s ever seen, he looks miserable, guilty. 

“It’s my fault,” Bellamy says quietly. “I was driving too fast.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Murphy’s smoothed out his expression in an instant, wipes an eye quickly. “You got nailed by a drunk driver. If I hadn’t been an ass to Raven, she never would have left the party, you never would have been driving her. Neither of you would have gotten hurt.”

Bellamy nods at him. “Raven wouldn’t have been with me, that’s true, but I still would have been driving, and going way too fast. But it’s all...a roll of the dice. Not your fault.”

“If it’s a roll of the dice, it’s not your fault either, then,” Murphy points out kindly, voice more gentle than normal. “It’s just something shitty that happened.”

Bellamy wants to believe this, wants to be zen like Murphy is attempting, but just feels miserable, guilty, scared. 

Clarke sighs, sits up, rubbing her eyes. The look she gives Murphy when she sees him is measuring, calculating. He offers her a coffee, and she takes it with a small smile. 

Bellamy can tell they’ve had a fight. A new side to their relationship--he’s never seen them upset with each other, never even imagined that they could get upset with each other. All their years of history...but even siblings fight sometimes, Bellamy knows that firsthand. 

Clarke twists the coffee cup in her hands. “How’d’you feel? I called Kane earlier. He’s been so worried about you and Raven. He was here all night on Monday…uh, called Harper, too. She and Monty and Jasper were camped out for hours upon hours…”

Oh, good. More guilt. 

“Octavia’ll be here around five…and she’s probably going to yell at you a little, so you should prepare yourself.”

Murphy scrapes back his chair, walks past Clarke with a hand on her shoulder. She touches it absently. 

“Be back later,” he tells her, and she nods. 

She stares at Bellamy without a word for a moment, lip between her teeth, like she’s got something to say but doesn’t know how to start. He lifts a heavy hand to touch her jaw. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “I don’t know--what the past few days have been like--but I’m fine.”

“Your airbag didn’t deploy,” Clarke’s fingers pleat the blanket. “Your chest is black and blue, broken ribs, one puncturing your lung...hairline fracture in your collarbone…you could have died, Bellamy, I don’t know if you heard me earlier, but you nearly did.”

She’s wearing a familiar sweater--in a flash he realizes it’s his sweater, a cream fisherman’s crewneck with stylized holes near the collar, so big it nearly slips off her shoulder. She touches it self-consciously. “I went to your place to get you clothes, toothbrush, that kind of stuff-- and this was on the bed and it smelled like you and I was…” she clears her throat. “I borrowed it.” 

Bellamy covers her twitchy hands with his, tries to smile. “It looks good on you.” 

He watches her try to pull herself together, watches her attempt to wear the mask she’s so good at, watches her shake her shoulders, straightens them, pulls her spine erect in the chair…

Watches her fail, and cover her face with her hands, lean her elbows on the side of the bed, and sob. 

“Hey, I’m sorry, Clarke…”

“I thought it had happened again. I thought, I thought...Octavia called me, and Bellamy, I couldn’t do it again.”

He tugs on her wrist, tries to find the right tone, is exhausted and starting to ache.

Asks her anyway, plain and bare: “Is this about Emori?”

She nods, wipes one hand across her eyes. 

“It’s not only my story. It’s not only mine, but I want to tell you, and Murphy knows I’m gonna…”

Clarke looks unbelievably young, her eyes a little swollen and lashes long and wet. She sniffles, and Bellamy says, “Can you come up here? Next to me?”

There’s doubt on her face: “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He scoots gingerly to one side, making room for her. His right arm seems to work fine, and he lifts it to pull Clarke closer. “You don’t have to tell me. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” 

“No.” Her voice is quiet, but steady, “no, you were right. I demanded honesty from you and I didn’t give it in return. And I--I overreacted at the party. It’s just been awhile, maybe over a year, since I had one of those nightmares, and it just washed over me with all this guilt, and fear, and sadness...I wasn’t ready to talk to you about it, and I should have just fucking said that, instead of losing my temper.”

“It was the lying,” Bellamy traces his finger over her shoulder, “you could have said you didn’t want to talk about it, instead of just lying and saying you were fine. You weren’t fine, and that was more than obvious.”

Clarke nods, her cheek soft against Bellamy’s arm. She pulls up her cell phone, opens an album. 

“Emori grew up with us. Her mom and my mom were college roommates, and they stayed friends. Her dad was rolling in dough, so she could always keep up with us, going skiing, to Hawaii, buying new cars, getting drugs, you know?” She pauses, flips through pictures--Emori has mischievous eyes, a corner-of-the-mouth smirk. “Murphy was about to turn 21, and it was going to be his golden birthday...he was a terror back then, having some kind of existential crisis, and all he ever wanted to do was shit we shouldn’t have been doing. Emori was always down. They were a bit of Bonnie and Clyde, and her dad didn’t approve at all, so they had to pretend they weren’t together, either Wells or I or both of us were always with them when we went out.”

Clarke’s reciting this from memory, like she’s told someone before, like it breaks her heart every time, takes a deep, shuddering breath. 

“I don’t remember all of it. Um, Murphy called and said he’d gotten a present early. Emori was at my house--Kane’s house, I mean. Wells was at Murphy’s. We were a little drunk, honestly, but I always thought I was great at driving drunk, and we drove over there, a little fast, nothing too bad...and Murphy’s present was this ridiculous fucking sportscar, and he said he wanted to drive it right then. Wells had champagne, he said to christen it, and Emori brought out these pills, and we drove the new car out to the Hollywood Hills. We got so fucked up, everything after Emori and I cut the pills is a little bit confusing. She didn’t have a good reaction to them, and started acting really strange. Murphy kept saying she’d sleep it off and trying to convince her to lay down on a picnic table, but Wells is usually so logical: he said I should take her back to my place. Murphy was demanding to drive--and all I remember is that I asked him, a hundred times, can you really drive? Are you sure? I think you’re too high…Emori sat in the passenger’s seat and wouldn’t get out, Murphy said he’d show me he could drive, and he revved the car and went down the road and Emori hadn’t even closed the car door, Wells and I were running after them, and they went--they went straight into a tree--Emori was thrown from the car--I found her,” Clarke is breathing fast, “I found her, I found her…” 

Bellamy smoothes her hair. “Okay, okay.” He realizes for the first time what the past few days must have been like for Clarke.

“She grabbed at the wheel,” Murphy says from the door. His face is impassive. “the car fishtailed before we hit the tree and she just--she was dead before Clarke got to us. Her neck was broken. She didn’t have on a seatbelt, the door was open, ” he shrugs his slim shoulders, a hint of misery to it, even though his face is calm. “Our parents paid off everyone--her parents knew she was trouble, they weren’t even shocked. They barely even cared, just said they always knew it would end up like it did. Her brother--they moved him to Sweden or something--he was shattered.”

"We were shattered," Clarke wipes tears, Murphy falls into the chair next to Bellamy’s bed. "We were shattered and we had to just..."

“You’ve gotta see why Clarke didn’t want to tell you,” Murphy’s fingers beat a tattoo on the chair arm. “It’s--the worst thing.” 

“We loved her,” Clarke whispers. “We loved her, and she was just gone.”

And there’s a twist to the “we loved her” -- a turn -- something to Clarke’s tone. Bellamy wishes he could see her face, but he’s also feeling aches and pains everywhere, wants to close his eyes, knows his sister is coming soon and she’ll have Hell wrapped around her like a coat. 

“Are you okay?” Clarke draws back, looks at him. She delicately disentangles herself, hops off the bed, and slips into the hall. She returns with a dark-haired nurse. 

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Blake. Not feeling too hot?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, plunges medicine into his IV, and he can’t even get out a syllable before the drugs take him down, down, down, into a vivid dream like he’s never had before, where he’s in a back room at a club with a dark-haired girl who has mischievous brown eyes and a half-smile.

“I loved her,” Emori says, “I loved her, and I should have told her--” Emori leads him on a maze, through the club, directly into a patch of land he already knows is near the Hollywood Hills. There’s a smashed car and Clarke is sitting in the road on her knees, gravel biting her skin. 

She’s alone.

He wonders if she’ll know if he touches her shoulder, tries to remember what Clarke looked like when she was twenty, doesn’t know who he’s getting when he follows Emori closer. 

“Clarke?” His voice blends with Emori’s. “Clarke, it’s time to go home.” 

When she looks up it’s not a past version, instead the Clarke he saw today, white sweater, ripped jeans, stares at him. The world tilts, the car disappears, she reaches for him and he’s pulled awake, panting, eyes flying open to Octavia’s angry face. 

“Bellamy Augustus Blake,” she begins, absolutely furious. 

Over her shoulder he can see Clarke in the hall, leaned against the doorframe, facing Kane.

“It’s not going to happen, Marcus, don’t ask me again,” she’s saying, hands clenched around a coffee. “No, I’m serious! And I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

Bellamy barely hears Octavia as she unleashes a lecture worthy of the strictest mother, he’s somewhere else entirely until she snaps, “Bell, are you even listening to me?!” She follows his eyeline to Clarke, and softens a bit. “She’s been here the whole time. She went back to your place the first night, made you a bag...came right back. And Bell, I already asked her to be a bridesmaid, so if you could just not fuck this up with her, I’d really appreciate it.”

Bellamy rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m in love with her.” 

“Well, yeah. I know that. But you had a big, nasty fight with her before you…” She trails off, twisting an elegant engagement ring he hadn’t noticed. 

“It’s resolved,” he snaps, “leave it alone.”

“I’m not picking at it, Christ. You nearly died, you’d think you could be nicer to me.”

“I’m sorry, O, that I was hit by a drunk driver at an inconvenient time for your wedding planning.” 

Her mouth makes a perfect round circle, and when she stands he’s a little surprised by how noticeable her tummy is. She’s still perfectly graceful, pushes back the chair. “I think the pain meds are making you cranky. I’m going home. We can talk tomorrow.” She pauses halfway across the room. “It’s a girl, you know. I found out yesterday.” 

“Octavia,” he sighs, but she’s gone, and Clarke after her, calling her name. 

He almost drifts off before Clarke comes back, looking a little displeased. 

“You drove her away. I was counting on you to talk her out of making me wear pink as a bridesmaid.” 

Bellamy snorts a little. 

“Don’t laugh! It’s the worst pink! It’ll look fine on Anya and Harper but I’m too pale for it…”

Bellamy reaches for Clarkes hand, pulls her closer. 

“Octavia said I almost died.”

“I told you that,” Clarke says waspishly. “Twice, I’m pretty sure.” 

“I thought you might be...exaggerating a little bit. Because of Emori.”

She stiffens. “Well, I wasn’t. Both of you--Raven went into arrest at the scene. Her heart literally stopped beating. Only for a second, but…”

“Clarke…if I almost died...and I didn’t say what I’ve wanted to say a dozen, twenty, fifty times?” 

His heart feels like it’s beating too fast, fingers shaking as he struggles to sit up and pull Clarke to him. 

She offers him a sliver of a smile, pushes a button on the bed which easily slides it into a sitting position. 

“I know, I’ve had several days to think about that, too,” she replies, as she hops up to sit next to him. “And I swore to myself, when you woke up--as soon as you were cognizant I would tell you about Emori and hope…”

“What? What does that have to do with anything?” Now his tongue is stuck, he’s confused. 

“It’s awful and I kept it from you and I thought it might change how you feel about me,” she admits, hanging her head.

Bellamy tilts her chin, “there is nothing, past or present, that could change the way I feel about you, Clarke.”

“I’m in love with you,” she whispers, “I’ve been in love with you and I’ve been sure that when you got to know me better and you realized what a fuck-up I am you would...you would…”

“Also be in love with you, you idiot,” and he tries to make it kind but pain gives his words an edge of exasperation. “Also be in love with you, practically since the day I met you. And there have been so many times when I decided it wasn’t the right moment, or we talked around it without actually saying the words, and I’m not going to do that anymore, and I need you to promise me--”

She’s nodding rapidly, head up and down, wiping away tears. “I promise, I won’t. I made you swear we’d be honest and I will hold up my end.” 

Clarke holds up her crooked pinky, offers it to him. Pain seems like the least important thing, the thing furthest from his mind. He reaches up out and catches her pinky with his. 

She leans forward, braces her arm over him, kisses his lips gently. He tangles his fingers in her curls, pulls her face closer, kisses her jaw, her neck, her throat until she makes a shocked little noise and moves back. “Let’s save that for when you’re feeling better, shall we?” 

“Who says I’m not?” He tries to give her a trademark reckless grin. 

“I do!” she exclaims, and kisses his cheek chastely. “Kane’s waiting in the hallway, wants to talk about the movie again…I’m gonna go get him, if you think you’re up for it.” 

Bellamy lifts the shoulder that doesn’t feel like someone wrenched it out and put it back in all wrong. “If it’s important, I guess.” 

Clarke’s half across the room, nods, but hesitating in her tracks she asks, “I’ll be right back, literally moments but...I sort of just want to say it again?” and he laughs at her, wrapping his arm across his ribs.

“Well, go ahead, you hopeless romantic.” 

“Love you,” she blows him a kiss dramatically.

And Bellamy can’t help but nod at her, a stupid smile ghosting the edges of his lips. “Yeah, love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm still busy thinking about the heart eyes Clarke and Bellamy are giving each other at the end of this chapter. 
> 
> Emori's story is so fucking tragic--we'll talk about it again in future, but I'll give a warning at the beginning of that chapter. Poor wild child. 
> 
> Who else is feeling REALLY worried about amazing publicist and friend, Raven Reyes, right now?
> 
> Who's wondering where Murphy got that bruise on his jaw?
> 
> Chapter title is from Existentialism on Prom Night by early-aughties flash-in-the-pan Straylight Run. Super nostalgically fond of them. 
> 
> I hope each of you had a wonderful Valentine's Day! I'm buried under snow and ice and my entire city is shut down, but I spent it with my favorite person.


	22. Someone to Take Us Back Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we deal with some aftermath. Also in which Bellamy thinks about a lot of reasons why he loves Clarke, and it's pretty damn cute, okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you keep up with my other WIP, And I Hang Like a Star, you've already heard me whine: I live in Texas, there was no power for several consecutive days, couldn't get anywhere due to ice, yadda yadda. However! It was seventy degrees today! Everything's melted! Trucks can finally make it in to our grocery stores! I still don't have water but I have POWER, and thank all the saints for that. 
> 
> Anyway, with power restored, the sun up, and the birds chirping, I could finally get back to sunshine-y LA days in this fic. I missed this Bellamy/Clarke, and I missed all of you. <3

It’s seeing Raven that wounds Bellamy. She’s nearly gray, her lids shuttered and purple. Her leg is in some sort of contraption, and the hair she always styles so neatly is scraped back from her face on top of her head. When he reaches out to touch her cheek, she says, without opening her eyes, “How do you still smell like cologne, Blake, when we’ve been in the hospital for days?”

He snatches his hand back, turning pink. “Clarke brought me my stuff. I didn’t put any damn cologne on, though.”

When she finally looks at him, there’s a grin on her face, and something that was tight and painful in his chest loosens. 

“You’re a mess, have you looked in a mirror? Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get you roles if you don’t heal right? Kane and Harper are going to murder you.”

“They’re just bruises,” Bellamy snaps, irritated with her all in a familiar rush, “they’ll fade.” 

“Most things do,” Raven replies, her eyes closing for a second. Intent on saying what he came to say, Bellamy takes a deep breath.

“Raven, I--”

“If you apologize to me, I’ll scream.”

“I was driving--”

“Everyone is apologizing for what they feel is their part. It’s ridiculous. It was an accident. I don’t want any more apologies. It wasn’t on purpose, no one saw it coming. That’s it. I’m not angry with anyone except the other driver.”

There is something in her face he doesn’t quite believe. 

“It would be normal though, if you were…” he attempts, and the sudden flash of her glare is enough to shut him up. 

“At what point have you known me to be normal?” She extends her hand, grabs at his fingers. “Bellamy, this wasn’t your fault, I swear. But could you do me a favor?”

“Anything.” 

“Could you tell Clarke to give Murphy a break? It’s not his fault, either.”

Bellamy remembers Murphy’s exhausted face, the long bruise on his chin. Clarke’s hesitation to accept his offer of coffee.

“I don’t want to get involved in their fight, Raven. They’ve been friends their whole lives, they’ll work it out.”

“No, she’s--Bellamy, she’s furious. And Murphy needs a friend like Clarke, okay? So say whatever you have to say, but get her to back off.”

Bellamy will probably never be able to tell Raven no again, never be able to forget the way she looks, so fragile, so pale. Will never be able to forget Clarke saying, _her heart stopped_. 

“Of course. Whatever you need.”

Nurses have insisted on Bellamy walking before he goes home, so he half-staggers back to his own room, good arm wrapped around his aching ribs, trying to figure out why the hell Raven cares about Murphy’s feelings so much in the first place.

The night rolls through his mind again. Raven throws her drink in Murphy’s face. Clarke points at the door. Bellamy takes Raven’s helmet and then she says, _hey, slow down_...and her scream.

It’s the scream that hurts him, moves through his entire body, coils his stomach and breaks his heart. He drops in the doorway. Clarke jumps to her feet and her phone clatters across the floor as she yells for a nurse and reaches for him. 

The pain of her grasping at his waist, trying to hold him up, rips him back to the present. A nurse skids into the room a moment too late, Bellamy on his hands and knees not far from the bed, Clarke breathing shakily inches away. 

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy says to her. “I’m sorry,” and for the first time since the accident, tears overwhelm him, so he just says it again and again as Clarke crawls towards him and puts her arms around his shoulders.

He’s apologizing for a thousand things, not just pulling her to the ground with him, but she knows the source of it, so perceptive, and he loves her for that.

“It was an accident,” she tells him soothingly, “it was just an accident, I know that--Raven knows that.”

Bellamy shakes his head, tears drying, face away from hers. “You’ve seen her. I was responsible for her and now she’s hurt and I don’t know if she’ll ever be okay again.”

Clarke’s hands are all over him, like she’s checking him out, looking for broken bones, broken pieces. “We’re talking about Raven. She’s going to be okay, even if it’s only in her own way. But in any case, even though you were driving, the only fault belongs to the driver who hit you.”

“I was going too fast. I know I was. Raven knows I was.”

“We all drive too fast sometimes.”

The metaphor is heavy in his ears. The nurse swoops behind Bellamy, pulls him up under his arms and walks him to the bed. Clarke rises gracefully on her own, like a dancer who missed the landing on her _grand jete_. 

He loves her, loves the way she pulls herself up as if by a string. 

“I want to go home,” Bellamy says to Clarke. “I just want to go home.”

He doesn’t know which home he means. His condo? Clarke’s place, with its comfortable beds and Clarke always within a stone’s throw? The house he grew up in, never safe, but where he knew all the hiding places? Harper and Monty’s little jewel-box, with its warm kitchen and sweet smiles? 

Anywhere, probably, just not this cold, sterile room. He doesn’t want to be here every time he remembers Raven’s scream, or the sounds from the cars colliding take over his brain. 

Clarke studies his face, gives him a nod. “You gonna be okay if I go in the hall, make some arrangements? It won’t take long.”

When she comes swinging back into the room with Jackson at her side, Bellamy doesn’t have the energy to be surprised. 

“I’m signing you out as your private physician,” Jackson begins, “as your neighbor, shouldn’t be too much trouble, long as you cooperate.”

“I’ll make sure he cooperates,” Clarke says to Jackson, “don’t worry about that.”

Bellamy folds himself carefully into Clarke’s car, tries not to clutch at the door as she whizzes through LA traffic to the pharmacy, then to Bellamy’s condo. The stairs present a problem, but eventually he makes his way up them, Clarke straggling behind with all the bags. 

Putting his head on a familiar pillow is the best feeling he’s had in days. 

Actually no, when Clarke lays down next to him, and curls up against his back to stroke his arm, that’s the best feeling he’s had in days. 

When she promises that she won’t leave until he’s feeling better, that’s the cherry on top. 

“I love you,” he tells her, half off his head with the pain meds, but he’s sure she says it back. 

When Bellamy was in high school, he dated Roma Bragg from sophomore year until he left town, cast in a movie, about halfway through senior year. 

He kept telling himself he was in love with her, kept assuring himself that she was the kind of girl a man could settle down with.

Everything screeched sideways in his mind when he realized that Roma was actually a girl he was settling _for_. 

There was nothing wrong with Roma. She was pretty, and smart, with a quick, sardonic sense of humor. If she’d stayed in town she would have taken over her dad’s grocery store, but Bellamy was happy to hear from Harper that Roma wasn’t happy settling in town, and broke away to LA to become a special effects makeup artist. 

Despite hoping to never run into her, Bellamy wanted the best for Roma, and that was half the reason he broke up with her in the first place. Let her go, he thought, let her be with someone who’ll be happy running a grocery store, not someone who ultimately never wants to come back to this awful town. And no use dragging a hometown girlfriend to a Hollywood spotlight. Bellamy wanted to be famous, to be important, to be cast in movies because fans loved him, and fans love a single, attainable man above all things. 

So Roma, with her upturned nose and broad cheekbones, was last on the list of Bellamy’s priorities and one day he realized with a lurch that when someone comes last you don’t love them at all. 

For the longest time he only had one night stands, and then there was Gina, who was a soft, beautiful girl who never bragged about their relationship or asked for anything special, but who would not accept Octavia’s abuse. After her came Echo, and while he never loved her, they had a good time together, getting high, looking attractive for the media, and not wanting or asking for anything more until the night she slept with Roan and Bellamy realized with a sick, sinking feeling that he didn’t want to date anyone who didn’t put him first.

A full circle of romances, in its own way, from being the one who uses to being the one who was used.

But now there’s Clarke, and now it feels like his whole life is dangling on some sort of precipice as he realizes for the first time that loving and being loved will keep you warm if only you let them.

And he’ll let them, this time. Aching, battered, bruised, and hurting, he’ll let them.

It’s only a few days before he starts to feel better, only a few days of babying before Clarke starts to insist that he can do certain things without her help. 

“Jackson says motion is medicine,” she tells him snottily, “so you need to get out of bed and stop acting like a cranky old man.”

She’s wearing one of his tee shirts and not much else when she makes this proclamation, and it’s a little hard to take her seriously, but she threatens to withhold coffee and that’s enough to send him, groaning and slow, into a sitting position and then to heave himself from the bed. 

“Do you need to lean on me?” She looks as if she’s suddenly regretting her sternness, and he notes for the thousandth time that she just can’t stand to see him in pain. 

“I’m fine,” he grunts, and it feels almost like the truth. 

She leads him to the kitchen hesitatingly, turning to look at him every few steps, and he walks only a little bent over this time.

“How long does it take for broken ribs to heal?” he grumbles. “It feels like it’s been years.”

“It hasn’t even been two weeks,” and her sigh sounds like she’s more tired than she’s ever been. “The tabloids are going crazy, by the way. People think I’ve moved in with you for good. We’re going too fast for all good sense, they say.”

Bellamy lifts a shoulder. “If you did want to move in…”

“Are you kidding? My house is two and a half times the size of this one. You’d be moving in with me.” She pours coffee beans into the grinder, pulls out Bellamy’s favorite mug. 

“But your house isn’t on the beach.” Bellamy longs to open the balcony doors and catch the scent of the ocean, but that requires another ten feet of walking, and he doesn’t really have the energy for such things.

“And thus doesn’t smell like salt and fish all the time...I only see that as a plus.”

“You trying to tell me my house stinks?” He can feel her eyes roll even though she’s facing the countertop. 

“Maybe,” she replies, “guess you’ll never know,” the lightness to her tone has a ring of falsehood as she leans over the fridge and pulls out eggs. Bellamy notices a small pile of avocados near the stove, and a stack of bread. Not the healthy, vegan, added-protein, twenty-different-kinds-of-seeds bread he normally eats, no, something heavy and white, maybe sourdough. 

“Gonna fatten me up while I can’t exercise?”

“I’m gonna feed you so you don’t wither away. Avocado toast with sprouts and eggs? It’s reasonably healthy. You’ll survive a week or two off your workout game and protein shakes, for sure, but you really only get those two weeks because you oughta SEE what Cartier wants you to wear…you’re gonna need an eight-pack for that shit.”

Bellamy’s tapping fingers freeze, he catches a gasp before it can hurt. “Uh...we heard from Cartier?”

Clarke goes still, her tone deliberately casual. “Oh hey, Harper might have forged your signature on some documents…”

“She might have done WHAT?” 

“I was the one who told her to. I knew you wanted to do it, and you were out of commission in a pretty serious way, and they wanted to know as soon as possible…”

Bellamy’s jaw hangs open, he’s never been so shocked in his life. Harper’s never done anything like this before, and it seems like a lot of assumptions on Clarke’s part.

But he did want to do the campaign...does want to do it still. “I should say thanks, but I’m entirely weirded out by you and Harper conspiring over my hospital bed.”

“We went in the hall,” Clarke whacks an avocado with a knife longer than her forearm, splitting it perfectly in half. “They sent me illustrations and an idea book and it was amazing, Bellamy. I mean, just gorgeous.”

“No half-naked pictures of you?”

“A few, but it’s an acceptable amount. And the Hades and Persephone stuff is absolutely stunning. So you’ve gotta hurry up and get better so we can do it.” 

Bellamy rubs his eyes. “Do you have it? The book?”

“After breakfast,” and the firmness of her tone is unyielding. “Just sit there and look pretty for a few minutes.”

Bellamy can’t argue with her, loves the avocado toast, loves the graceful way she does everything, even washes the dishes. 

When she lays the book and the illustrations in front of him, the entire room washes away while he stares at a sketch of Clarke in a foamy black dress, coming out of nothingness, standing a hairsbreadth from Bellamy in all white, a sea of vivid flowers and trees behind him. He offers his black-crowned Hades a perfect apple, and she is reaching for it tentatively, bracelets and rings on perfect display.  
“This one’s for the fragrance,” she explains, “I really like the genderbending.” 

Bellamy nods as she flips a page, turning to a sketch of Bellamy in a long wool coat, flipping up the collar with a hand wearing a watch. Then Clarke in a leather motorcycle jacket, her hands on the lapels, covered in rings and bracelets and watches. There’s an attached picture of the motorcycle jacket she’ll actually be wearing, white with black stitching and muted silver zippers. 

Everything’s lovely, the mythology sketches ethereal and haunting. Bellamy’d give his left arm to see Clarke in a dress like that, her eyes covered in kohl, a high black crown in matte black--she’ll look amazing, she’ll look to die for. 

She won’t look like Clarke Griffin, Disney Icon, and that’s all she’s wanted out of the past several months. 

He couldn’t have turned down the opportunity if he’d been awake, he won’t pretend any differently.

“This looks great. You made the right call.”

“Course I did,” she replies. “Your career is important to me. I look out for it like I look out for my own. Now, c’mon. We’re going to put on real clothes and go down to the beach.”

Bellamy balks: “Clarke, I’m tired…”

“Me too. Tired of being in this damn condo. We’ll just go sit, maybe put our feet in the water a little?” 

Bellamy’s glare is baleful, he feels stubborn. “I don’t want to.” 

“Well, too fucking bad. Josie and Gabriel are coming to take some pictures of us. Me sticking by my poor, bruised man, you loving me because I support you through anything. We need the attention. So get up off that stool before I dump you off it, and go do something about your hair.”

Bellamy lets out a giant sigh, moves extra-carefully, hoping to make Clarke feel guilty, but she just snorts as she gathers up the books from Cartier. 

Turns out that the expiration date on Clarke’s brand of sympathy is nearly-two-weeks, but he can’t blame her, thinks about the four days she spent at his side before he woke up, thinks of her fears for Raven, thinks of her fight with Murphy that might have been friendship-ending and probably got physical. (Can’t imagine who else is angry enough to punch Murphy, and Clarke is exactly the right height that her punch would leave a bruise on the chin instead of the cheek.)

Thinks of Cartier, thinks of moving forward, thinks of the importance of setting your sights on the future. 

He puts an arm around Clarke in the bathroom, kisses her cheek, says, “you know I love you, right?”

He can feel the tension drain out of her, and she gives him a crooked smile in the mirror. “And you know I love you back, but can you put on a shirt that doesn’t have a hundred holes in it? It’s a little chilly out for a beach excursion but Josie’s gonna sell it as us being tired of hiding in the house while you heal.”

She’s been wearing more of his clothes lately than her own. A way to be close to him, she said one night. A way to feel connected. So he’s not surprised that she’s wearing one of his hoodies over her tee shirt and jeans, folded up at the bottom. 

He drags down a hooded fisherman’s sweater, rolls up his own jeans. Refuses outright to “do something to his hair” because he knows exactly what the wind will do in response. Clarke pins her hair half-back with a mass of bobby pins. Bellamy’s not sure how she does it, really, but enough bobby pins means her hair won’t move from its current style, despite the chilled wind that hits them as soon as they open the door. 

When they are standing together, letting the icy ocean freeze their toes, Clarke says unexpectedly, “Bellamy, your Lola called while you were in the hospital.”

He can only stare at her. 

“I answered your phone a lot, at the beginning. People had expectations, you know, they were looking for you, and didn’t know you’d been in the accident. And then when they heard about the accident, they were looking for you to find out if you were okay. After a while I got sick of answering, but before I gave it up, this call came through from the Philippines and I took it and...it was your Lola. She’d heard about the accident and she couldn’t stand waiting for you to call her anymore. She needed to know you were okay. And then she--god, Bellamy, she begged me to ask you to call her.” Clarke touches his cheek, runs her thumb along his jaw. “Bellamy, you need to take this chance. She cares about you, she worries about you...keeps up with your career and your relationships...”

“You had to have known it was her, when you saw the call was from the Philippines.”

Clarke shrugs. “I didn’t quite, but as soon as she identified herself it all came tumbling back to me like a ton of bricks, and I felt stupid, guilty... You already know I think you should give her and her family a chance, and now I only feel it more strongly. You deserve to have other people at your back. You deserve to find out where your dad was all these years. And maybe it’ll be a good reason, maybe it’ll be a terrible one, but this family wants you to be a part of it. I think you should at least try.”

Bellamy hopes Josie isn’t snapping pictures while he stares at Clarke, slightly furious. 

“Don’t let your fear of rejection keep you from finding family that won’t abandon you,” Clarke whispers, taking a step forward as the water roils at their feet. “Give them a chance like you gave me one.”

Bellamy moves forward to meet her, carefully puts his arms around her and pulls her close. “Okay,” he tells her, anxiety swirling in his stomach, “okay, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Amy Hit the Atmosphere/Counting Crows -- I've used lyrics from this song before and I may use them again. It's so good!
> 
> Clarke really was out there making all kinds of decisions for Bellamy when he was down, like a proper wifey. Love her and her good intentions, but we'll see where they get Bellamy. 
> 
> Coming up: Raven's recovery, the Cartier campaign, shotgun wedding, and meeting Lola. 
> 
> Love your comments more than the beach, don't hesitate to drop them!


	23. Ask, Is Something Wrong? (Damn Right There Is)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is ANGST.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have a troubled relationship with one or both of your parents, this may be a difficult read for you.

October is never an easy month.

Bellamy wants to pretend he’s a strong person. He does pretty well most of the time, after all, he’s an actor. And there are other things to be caught up in: Octavia’s wedding, Raven’s recovery, the upcoming Cartier shoot, the tipping point in his relationship with Clarke and a new habit of communicating with his Lola and cousins. 

But none of these things are enough to distract from the hole in his heart that seems like it’ll expand forever every year at this time. 

He’s not even sure that the hole is because of grief for his mother. He sometimes thinks it’s because of the mother he didn’t get: a real mom, a supportive one, the kind who’d be thrilled for him when his movie got nominated for the Oscars, the kind who’d want to move in with Octavia and help her with wedding planning, the kind who would love Clarke and take her side over pink bridesmaid dresses. 

“You have to choose a color that looks good on everyone,” this mother would say, chastising Octavia. “What about blue? Or a nice seafoam green?” And she’d have fabric samples and endless patience, in Bellamy’s imagination. She’d make Octavia peppermint tea when her stomach was upset. She’d have been next to Clarke when Bellamy woke up in the hospital. 

Clarke would call her Rory, like Bellamy’s Aunt Byrne did, before she died in a car accident when Bellamy was nine. 

They’re all gone now, Aurora’s entire family. Aunt Byrne in the car accident, Granny Blake of breast cancer just like her younger daughter, Grandpa Blake of a heart attack shortly after his wife died. Only Bellamy and Octavia are left of the Blake name, now, and Bellamy has recently found out that his last name should have been Valencia.

Bellamy Valencia. He doesn’t like the ring of it, really, even though Clarke said it was pretty. And his mother, regardless of all her faults, was the one who tried to stick around, and his sister is a Blake, so he’ll keep it. He’ll be Bellamy Blake until he dies. 

Clarke said that your name is connected intrinsically to your sense of self, that it only made sense that he wanted to stay Bellamy Blake, having been Bellamy Blake for so many years. _Don’t worry_ , she’d said. _Your Lola isn’t going to expect you to suddenly change your name._

He’s not sure that’s true, but then he’s not sure of any expectations when it comes to his Lola. Their emails and phone calls are still skirting the bigger issues, mostly discussing family stories like his cousin wanting to become a famous singer despite being completely tone deaf, or how pretty a couple he and Clarke are--and do they want babies? And will they get married soon? 

Lola asks about Octavia, and she’s kindly, concerned, with much advice for things like swollen ankles and morning sickness, and Bellamy thinks that’s sweet of her. Sometimes it brings a lump to his throat, the thought that Octavia herself doesn’t have a Lola to ask these questions of. When he thanks the older woman, she’s confused. 

_She’s your sister_ , Lola says. _Her well being is very important to us. We pray for her._

Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t put off the contact for so long.

Sometimes he’s mad at Clarke for pushing the issue.

Mostly he sinks into a depression he can’t throw off, angry that his entire life hasn’t been different, sure that even if he didn’t deserve a better mother, Octavia did, and here he is suddenly, with a grandmother and an entire extended family while his pregnant sister searches up internet tips to prevent stretch marks and it just doesn’t seem fair at all.

And he misses his mother. She doesn’t deserve it, when he’s being rational, she doesn’t deserve it and she was a terrible, neglectful parent who left her children broken as old playthings but he’ll think of her smile and he’ll nearly believe it was different. 

She died on October 26th the year that Bellamy was 19, nearly 20, and he hates her and wishes she was still alive all in the same breath. 

_Why couldn’t it have been different_ , he asks Clarke one night, when they’re laying in her bed. He’s had a bad day, and she’s curled around him, running her fingers through his hair. _I just don’t understand. Why couldn’t it have been different_?

She doesn’t have an answer, merely slides down in the bed so that she can hold him closer. _I don’t know_ , she tells him. _For your sake, I wish they were._

He knows it’s not right to ask her these kinds of questions, knows she’s broken in her own ways, knows she misses her own father, knows she has her own brands of guilt and resentment. 

Unfairly, he sometimes thinks that at least her father was a good man. At least she knew the steadiness of a loving parent. And at least she still has a mother who cares deeply for her, even if sometimes her caring is hard to receive, to accept. 

Unfairly, he sometimes wants to draw back from her, to refuse her help, her affection. 

Unfairly, he turns his back to her sometimes, picks on her, tells her she can’t understand. 

It’s only October 12th, and the month cannot continue this way. 

Bellamy swore he’d let Clarke’s love keep him warm. He’s starting to feel like that was a lie, and he doesn’t want to be a liar, so he puts his arms around her. He tells her he loves her, trails a finger down the ridges of her spine, nips at her throat. 

Tries to lose himself in the feeling of her body under his, the way she flutters around him when she comes, the stop-stutter-start of her breathing and how she whimpers his name on her way to a scream. Her back rises off the bed so her hips meet his and he sinks his teeth into her breast, drags his teeth down to her nipple and groans against it as he releases. 

She scratches down his back as they move together, and he hopes it makes him bleed. 

He thought it would make him feel better, laying half on top of her in the aftermath, their skin sticky and wet and Clarke still breathing harshly, running her fingertips over his upper back. He loops his hand around her thigh, rubs his thumb against the soft skin there, tries to ground himself. 

Tries, tries, tries. 

Cannot. 

He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s clutching at her until she says his name for the half-dozenth time, “Bell--Bellamy--you’re _hurting_ me,” and he releases her thigh to see white finger-marks turning red. She draws her legs back from him, sitting up, her face confused and pained. He half-crawls towards her, trying to vocalize some sort of apology, an explanation, and she scoots back across the bed away from him, holding her hand out in a _stop_ gesture, and she puts her clothes on without taking her eyes off him.

Like he might hurt her again. 

And that is more than he can take. 

“Please,” he says hoarsely, “please, I’m sorry.” 

Clarke nods, but retreats a little further, till she’s backed up to her vanity, half across the room. “What the hell?” She asks finally, “what the hell, Bellamy?” as she rubs the sore spot on her thigh. “You went somewhere else entirely.” 

She’s going to have bruises. 

_He hurt her._

He hurt her, and memories of his mom scrambling away from men with too-large hands swim before his eyes, memories of hiding Octavia in his closet and sleeping in front of the door to protect her, of the baseball bat he’d clutch to his chest, of Finn, digging his fingers into Clarke’s arms and the way her eyes widened, the way she tried to break free…

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, around the air he’s sucking in, halfway dizzy with the effort to come back to himself. “I got lost,” he tells her. “I’m so sorry, I got lost.” 

She shivers, her eyebrows drawing together, her lips working but no words coming out. “In your head?” she finally asks, “what were you thinking about?”

She props herself against the vanity, crosses one leg over the other so he can’t see the bruises, carefully balanced. 

Bellamy doesn’t know what to say, how to explain to her that his brain was circling the drain of regrets once again, that he can’t stop thinking about his beautiful, frail, absent mother, about every mistake she ever made and all the ones he made when he was trying to deal with her.

About how he wasn’t there when she died, and he’ll never forgive himself, because mistakes or none, no one deserves to die alone. 

“It’s this month,” he whispers finally. “I hate this stupid fucking month.”

Clarke’s chin buckles a little, she nods, comes back to the bed. Uses her fingers to turn up his chin, to look steadily into his eyes. “You can’t beat yourself up over this for the rest of your life, Bellamy. You can’t spend your whole life angry and brokenhearted over all the things she messed up, and all the ways you messed up trying to protect yourself, protect your sister. That’ll ruin you, do you understand me? That’ll ruin us. When we’re kids and our parents are…” she hesitates, searching for a word, coming up with one that’s familiar, “when they’re flawed? And they hurt us? We’re only little, we’re so young. We can’t blame our childhood selves for not reacting perfectly.” 

“I was nineteen,” Bellamy counters, “I wasn’t a child.”

Clarke puts her palm against his shoulder, touches the strands of hair that are getting too long, smiles sadly at him. “In the end you were nineteen. But you were a little boy when it started, and you will always feel like a little boy when you think of her. And nineteen is so young, Bellamy. You did what you thought was best for Octavia and I wish you could see that you had no other choice.”

“She died alone.” Bellamy closes his eyes, can’t look at Clarke’s face, so close to his. “I let her die alone, I knew she was sick, the nurse called and she asked if I wanted to bring Octavia, asked if I wanted to come, and I just--”

Clarke gives him a half smile, something that’s slipping, and she brushes his hair out of his face and her voice is unsteady: “She never did anything in her life to earn your forgiveness. To earn your place at her bedside. She only made your life hard. She only made you tough and guarded, she only made Octavia heartbroken and insecure. She didn’t deserve you, Bellamy. Not as a little boy, not as a nineteen year old, and not now.”

Bellamy is still under her touch, trying to believe what she says, but his chest is breaking wide open and he asks Clarke, “then why do I still love her?”

“Oh, Bellamy,” she whispers, touching her forehead to his. “We all love people who don’t deserve it.”

He wonders who she’s thinking of, even as she crawls into his lap, even as she puts her arms around him. Even as he lets himself relax against her, tries to drink in her scent, he wonders. 

There is a peace to the way Clarke holds him sometimes, as if she’s gathering his disparate pieces, fitting them together, and gluing them in place. He whispers into her jaw that he loves her, lets it wash over him when she says it back. “I want to be happy,” he tells her, in case she doesn’t know. 

“Me too.” She brushes her lips across his cheekbone. “But we have complicated histories, complicated lives. It’s okay that we have a lot of work to do. And it’s only been a month, since the hospital, since we started the honest part of this relationship. We have to give each other time, give ourselves time.” 

Clarke stretches her legs across his, flexes her toes. Bellamy ghosts his fingers over the bruises on her thigh. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles again. 

Now she looks at him, eyes clear, and it’s not exactly a threat but she sounds strong and uncompromising when she tells him: “An accident is an accident, but don’t ever put your hands on me if it’s not to show me you love me, got it?”

“I was trying to...bring myself back to the ground. I didn’t realize...”

Clarke nods hastily. “And I know that. It’s the only reason I haven’t walked out the door.”

“I never want to hurt you,” he pulls his fingers deliberately down her shoulder, across her back, up her shirt. “I just want to take care of you, be with you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, Bellamy. I’m an adult.” She makes a little twirly motion in the air. “I own a house and everything. Like a big girl. I picked out this bed all by myself, even.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hey, so, my cousin, John Mark?”

“The one who just got married, or the one who has four kids?”

“The one who paints houses.”

“Mmm. Yeah?”

“He sent me a package. Of pictures and stuff. I haven’t opened it--brought it here so we could look at it together?”

Bellamy wants, needs a distraction, and John Mark’s promised shots of all of the cousins, pictures from Lola’s 70th birthday party, and some old-school snaps of the uncles and aunties. He snags the fat envelope from Clarke’s kitchen counter, and brings it up to where she’s nestled under the covers cross legged. He dumps the contents out in between them, dozens of glossy photos carefully labeled in tiny, neat handwriting. 

They’ve seen pictures of the family before, have video-chatted with them and know what they look like. But this in-depth evidence of family ties, of Lola’s familiar smile echoed through seven siblings, is new, is beautiful. Clarke begins to sort the older photos, pulling them out and putting them aside. Seven brothers and sisters are arranged in various positions, posing Brady Bunch style up and down staircases and in front of houses, grinning on the beach with missing teeth. 

“This one’s John Mark’s mom,” Clarke says, flipping over a photo, pointing. “Your aunt Rosa. And this is your dad.” 

Rosa is older, she must be eight, and she has a chubby toddler hitched up on her hip. Rosa beams at the camera, a pretty child, dark hair brushed until it shines, ribbons curled around a perfect braid. The toddler looks like he’s been crying, a lollipop curled in one fat fist. The note on the back of the photo explains, “Daniel was always Rosa’s favorite.” 

Daniel, Bellamy thinks for the thousandth time. Daniel Valencia is my father. 

He can hear Clarke’s breath hitch a little next to him. She has a handful of snapshots in her hand, but she’s angled a little bit away from Bellamy, so he can’t see what she’s looking at until she twists her wrist.

It’s a bit like looking in a funhouse mirror, especially for Bellamy, who’s spent his whole life thinking that he resembles no one in particular, not even his mother or sister. But he does indeed resemble the young man in this picture, posing casually, shirtless near someone’s backyard pool. 

They aren’t identical by any means, but Bellamy can see himself reflected in Daniel’s golden tan and pitch black hair, his freckles and upturned nose. It’s somehow shockingly painful and subtly comforting all at once, to know he looks like someone, belongs to a family full of high cheekbones and chin dimples, glossy brown eyes and perfect smiles. 

Clarke lays down the pictures like a hand of cards, snapshot after snapshot of Daniel Valencia who’ll be young forever, and the exquisite suffering in Bellamy’s chest is nearly too much--he can barely breathe. 

It is one thing to know theoretically that you belong to someone, that you are someone’s daughter or son. It is a different thing entirely to know that you are made of someone’s bone and blood, to see your own faults and foibles reflected in their eyes. 

“He’s so handsome.” Clarke covers Bellamy’s hands with one of her own. “You look just like him.” 

There are tears running down his cheeks.

Bellamy never knew that finally belonging to someone would be such cold comfort, such agony, until he stares at the photo of golden Daniel Valencia, studying the handwriting on the back.

_Your father_ , it says, over and over. _Your father_ , Lola writes, and it hurts so much he could be sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *big sigh*
> 
> Chapter title, Death Cab/Tiny Vessels
> 
> If anyone needs me I'll be in the corner having an existential crisis over the general nature of families and belonging.


	24. Heartbeats on High Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things aren't half as depressing as they were last chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This somehow ended up being twice as long as normal. I'm sorry? You're welcome? I dunno, but I hope you like it! 
> 
> There are no trigger warnings for this chapter, and the End Notes contain a spoiler, so consider yourself warned.

There’s a freedom and a fear to being loved, a knife’s-edge feeling, like placing your feet carefully, one after the other, on a tightrope. You could fall and it would feel like flying, Bellamy thinks, you could fall and the last thing you’d see would be her face.

And it would be worth the crash landing. 

When he wakes up in Clarke’s bed for the fifteenth straight day, her hair splayed across the pillows and tickling his neck, she is heart-stoppingly beautiful and he has to wonder if there’s ever going to be a good enough reason to retreat to his own condo. 

She’d scoffed to him once that her place was bigger, that she would expect him to move in with her rather than the other way around. And her place is larger, is nicer, feels and looks like a home instead of the bachelor’s pad that Bellamy mostly chose for its proximity to the ocean. The house is reflective of Clarke herself: comfortable but pulled-together, welcoming with modern sensibilities. 

He wonders idly if he’d be able to convince her to get rid of that stupid _chaise longue_ she’s so attached to, if he could get her to share her closet or if he’d keep his things in the guest bedroom. 

He tangles his fingers in her curls. Her hair is soft as fairy floss, and when the sun catches it she looks ethereal, like she belongs to another world, like if he closes his eyes and opens them again she’ll be gone, returned to wherever she came from.

Somewhere he can’t follow. Somewhere he doesn’t belong. 

But no--she’s always there in the morning. He wishes he could bottle the feeling of touching her warm porcelain skin, somehow keep the small sounds she makes when she’s trying to wake up, so he could play it back any time he’s feeling lonely. Just press a button and hear her soft, raspy voice whisper his name. 

Bellamy suspects he’s not the first person in Clarke’s life to be smitten by everything about her, even the way she pushes him back in the morning with a wrinkled nose and says, “Christ, Bellamy, go brush your teeth before you try to kiss me.”

He knows they have to get up--Octavia and Lincoln’s rehearsal dinner is being held in Clarke’s backyard tonight, and the furniture rental people and party planners and decorators will be arriving in droves soon. He’s pretty sure he heard Niylah let herself in an hour ago, though she’s moving very quietly downstairs, trying not to make noise. 

Bellamy can’t lay in bed all day staring at Clarke, no matter how much he wants to, so he kisses her shoulder and says her name. When her eyes flutter open he grins: “Lots to do today, Miss Sure-Let’s-Have-the-Rehearsal-Dinner-at-My-Place.” 

“Ugh,” she stretches like a kitten, “what time is it?”

“Almost 8:30,” he closes one eye to see the digital numbers on Clarke’s alarm clock a bit better, then paws around on the nightstand for his glasses. It’s possible his eyesight’s getting worse, which seems unfair since his mother and sister never had any problems with theirs.

He makes a note to ask Lola if Daniel wore glasses.

The sigh Clarke heaves is deeply dramatic, even for an actress. “Is Niylah here?”

“I think so, heard someone turn a key in the lock a while ago.”

Clarke covers a yawn with her fist, then throws back the covers. 

It never fails to amaze him how quickly she goes from yawning and cranky to fully clothed and singing along with the radio. She’s dressed to work, a fitted, off-the-shoulder crop top under baggy overalls folded up at the bottom. Bellamy follows suit in a pair of ripped jeans and a tee shirt, and they brush their teeth and try to restrain their hair together. Clarke ends up with a ponytail, Bellamy ends up contemplating shaving his head. 

Octavia would not appreciate THAT the day before her wedding, but the thought amuses him anyway. 

It all happens at once: The doorbell is ringing and Clarke is running down the stairs with her Converse in one hand and Niylah’s calling, “I brought you guys coffee!” and Luna, his friend from Tidewater Blooms, is holding an arrangement so big Bellamy’s not sure it’ll fit on the tables but Clarke is squealing over how much she loves it and Bellamy has never been to a wedding or a rehearsal dinner but it’s looking likely he’s going to be exhausted long before they give the toasts tonight. 

In the end, Clarke and Harper were able to convince Octavia that pale pink didn’t actually fit the aesthetic she was going for, and instead the colors have moved to a gray-washed purple (twilight violet, Clarke had snorted with an eye roll) accented with silvers and a creamy ivory. The arrangements have a few darker purple buds, including calla lilies that are so deeply violet they’re nearly black.

Bellamy isn’t any kind of expert, but he knows those damn calla lilies must have cost a fortune. Clarke insisted on paying for everything, and when Bellamy protested she’d said, “It’s my wedding present to them. Don’t make things difficult.”

_Don’t make things difficult_ is something she says a lot, an attempt to cut a fight off at the pass. It means she’s not listening, it means that no matter what he says, she has no intention of changing her plans. 

Arguing with Clarke over this would only mean making Octavia unhappy, and he has no intentions of doing that right now, not when he’s festering in guilt over keeping his newfound family a secret from his sister. So he’d given Clarke that snarky, _Do whatever you want, Clarke_ ,” that she’s used against him so many times.

It was childish, and he had to sleep in the guest bedroom that night, but it somehow made him feel better. 

Luna’s brought a whole team with her, and the party planner with another three people are right on her heels. The downstairs and backyard are swimming with people stringing lights and spreading tablecloths. Clarke’s in the kitchen with a notepad and a pen, checking things off.

Octavia could be getting married here tonight, and Bellamy would still find the whole thing beyond extravagant. 

He’s been admittedly hands-off about the actual wedding, mainly just paying for things as they needed to be paid for. Octavia refused to show her dress to him or anyone other than her bridesmaids. Clarke and Harper found the destination and the wedding planner, and from there Bellamy felt he didn’t have much to worry about. 

You know, aside from his baby sister marrying a man nearly ten years older than her. Aside from her being about three months from having a child of her own, when no one has ever shown her the right way to be a parent.

Small things, right? 

Clarke says that the details will work themselves out. That Octavia will ask for help with the baby if she needs it. That she has friends who are basically family and they will support her. She says that Lincoln loves Octavia, and even if they are ten years apart, they’re both adults and they’ve made this decision together. 

Clarke tells him to stop worrying, brushes her fingers down the scrunched up lines between his eyebrows as if she can smooth them out--smooth him out. He loves that gesture, along with a million more, because Clarke is so good at quietly insisting that things will be okay, backed up by a reminder that even if they aren’t going to be okay, she’ll still be there. 

Bellamy’s stopped in the living room despite the heavy arrangement in his hands, just watching her bite the end of her pen while she speaks to someone on the phone in her most businesslike tone. They lock eyes and she rolls hers, making a _they won’t shut up gesture_ and finishing it with a grin. 

_Love you_ , he mouths at her, and watches her cheeks flush pink. 

_Love you_ , he thinks, _and I wish all of this fuss was for us_. 

_Love you_ , and _for the first time in my life, I can see myself getting married someday._

_Love you, and I’m in so far above my head I might drown._

Niylah walks nearly right into him, bumping his shoulder, and he struggles not to drop the flowers. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Let’s go put that down.” 

He follows her to a table, gently places the centerpiece in the middle. 

Most of the workers are in the kitchen, eating a belated pizza lunch, so the lawn is empty when Niylah asks quietly, “you okay?”

Niylah’s a sweet girl, friendly, intuitive. Bellamy’s been seeing a lot of her lately, since he’s spending so much time at Clarke’s house. Still, he’s a little surprised at the concern in her voice, though of course Clarke probably talks to Niylah about him. Maybe she knows every detail of how rough things have been recently. 

That doesn’t make him mad as much as it makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. He shrugs at her. 

“I’m fine, why would I be otherwise?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off his face, but she shrugs right back: “You seem like you’re somewhere else, today. And you were just looking at Clarke like…” 

“Like I’m in love with her?” Bellamy supplies. “I am in love with her.” 

“Of course you are,” Niylah’s tone is soothing. “I’m not implying otherwise, but you’re coming off very haunted today, Bellamy, and you’ve gotta fix your whole aura before your sister gets here tonight, or she’s going to draw conclusions and she’s going to be upset.” 

_I am haunted today_ , Bellamy thinks. _Today and every other day._

The ghost of Daniel Valencia is hanging over him.

He shakes his head, trying to clear those thoughts away. 

“I’m getting to know my family,” he tells Niylah shakily. “My dad’s side of the family. And they’re great. But I feel really guilty that I know them when Octavia doesn’t know anything about her dad or his people. It’s not that big of a deal, but in the middle of all of this stuff for her wedding, you know, it’s on my mind.”

The sympathy on Niylah’s face is obvious. She reaches for his arm and clasps it gently. “The only family Octavia cares about, right now is you, so you need to hold yourself together for a couple of days. Maybe when she gets back from her honeymoon you can tell her all about this, and you’ll feel better. But right now? She needs you to be her rock, none of this broody, troubled shit.” 

“You sound like Clarke.” Bellamy shakes his head. 

“Where do you think she gets all her best advice from?”

By six the backyard has been transformed into a soft, romantic background. The caterers are clustered in the kitchen, Luna and her staff long gone. Bellamy’s tying his tie in the vanity mirror, while Clarke adds another layer of mascara to her lashes. Her hair’s half up, twisted back on the sides and secured, with streaming ribbons completing the look of a crown, and her dress is inspired by the late sixties, short and mod with dramatic bell sleeves. It’s a muted sage green that makes her blue eyes pop. 

She stands too close when she straightens his tie, and he wants to kiss her, wants to tell her about the things he’s been keeping close to his chest all day, but her lip gloss is perfect and they’re in a hurry so instead he just tells her she looks pretty and lets her lead the way as the doorbell rings. 

Octavia and Clarke must have been on the same wavelength when they were choosing dresses; Octavia’s wearing a floor-length seventies-style dress, embroidered white eyelet lace all over, with a deep, revealing neckline and blouson sleeves. Bellamy can’t help but wonder if they hit up the vintage shop together; they look like they’re headed to star in the same film. Everyone else’s clothes seem tame and bland by comparison, but then, Bellamy’s spent his whole life finding people tame by comparison to his sister. 

Clarke finds flower crowns somewhere, and she, Octavia, Harper, and a sullen Anya each wear one. People cluster around the tables, pouring wine, picking at their food, bursting into giggles over nothing in particular that Bellamy can see. 

Not that he’s looking very hard in any case. Clarke’s captivating him tonight, she looks dreamy framed by the moon and the fairy lights. Her smile is relaxed and genuine, she’s grabbed a wine bottle from one of the tables and she’s talking to Lincoln, gesturing wildly.

Octavia is exhausted by ten, escaping the noise from the yard to curl up on the couch. Bellamy can hear scraps of Clarke and Lincoln’s conversation: they’re talking art enthusiastically while Maya listens in.

Bellamy doesn’t have an opinion on art generally, and leaves the three of them to it, drifting into the house to check on his sister. She’s got her legs tucked underneath her, leaning into the overstuffed arm, scrolling through Instagram on her phone. 

He reaches for her shoulder and squeezes as he walks around to sit near her. “Hey, you need anything? Water?”

She smiles up at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling, looking pleased to see him in a way that wrings out his heart. “Just the company of my big brother,” she reaches for his hand. “Sit down with me. Everyone’s drunk out there and it’s getting too loud.” 

She lets her arm fall around the curve of her stomach, looking altogether too angelic to be any version of Octavia Blake. “I can’t believe I’m getting married tomorrow.” She sounds young, twirls her fingers around the embroidery in her dress’s hem. 

Bellamy laughs, “Join the club. Your soon-to-be-husband is out there talking art with my...Clarke. I feel like we’re on another planet.”

Octavia grins. “Your Clarke, huh?”

Bellamy lets out a little groan, leans his head on Octavia’s shoulder as she laughs. “Okay, then, when are you and your Clarke getting married? I don’t want to be a bridesmaid at nine months pregnant, so you’re gonna have to wait a little bit.”

“We haven’t even talked about it, O, I have no idea how she feels about marriage. And anyway, we haven’t even been together a year.”

Octavia’s eyes are a little glossy as she regards him, like she might cry. “You’ve never loved anyone like this. And no one’s ever loved you like this. You might not be ready to get married, and I get that, but I hope you’re not too afraid to let her know that you want the next step, whatever that may be.”

“I’m the older sibling,” Bellamy tells her reproachfully, “I’m supposed to be the one with practical advice.” 

“This isn’t practical advice,” Octavia shakes her head at him, “this is impractical advice. Lose your head, Bellamy. Go a little crazy over Clarke.” 

He can only manage a half-smile, because if only Octavia knew how crazy he’s already gone over Clarke. 

His sister reaches for him, pats his cheek. “You okay, Bell? I worry about you, since the accident.”

Bellamy opens his mouth to say he’s fine. To say _don’t worry about me_. To say _focus on yourself, you’re the one getting married, you’re the one with the baby._

Octavia’s staring at him, and he watches emotions chase each other across her face while he chokes on the insistence that everything’s alright. 

“What is it?” she grips his hand, “what’s going on? Can I help?”

She’s getting married tomorrow. He should just smile, he should just lie. 

But Octavia is staring straight into his eyes, and he just can’t do it. 

“My dad’s family got in touch with me,” Bellamy looks at the couch, at his hand inside both of Octavia’s. “They um...they’d reached out before, but I never responded. After the accident, they talked to Clarke, and she convinced me to give them a chance…”

He can’t read Octavia’s face. “Just his family?” she questions finally. “Not him?”

“He died last year…”

“You never told me.” The reproach in her voice is clear. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“O, we weren’t in the best place in our relationship at that time. And it’s not just you. I didn’t tell anyone. Clarke didn’t even know at first.”

“How did you even find out? I thought you didn’t know who he was.” 

Bellamy thought she’d be angrier, is shocked at her reaction. “I didn’t. My cousin, John Mark, he’s been kind of the family spokesperson. He left me a message at the time, saying that they’d found my number in my dad’s things, and that I should know that he’d died. He gave me their contact information and begged me to get in touch. But I didn’t.” 

“You were mad,” Octavia nods, “I understand. But what changed your mind?”

“I almost died, for one thing…And Clarke thought it would be good for me.”

Octavia rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Of course. So it wouldn’t have mattered if you told me about your dad and I’d insisted you try to create a relationship, because you wouldn’t have done it until Clarke told you to.” 

“Is that what you would have said, if I’d told you? That I should try to have a relationship with them?”

Octavia seems so poised, so mature. “Bell, you deserve to know them--and they’re so lucky to know you. I could never resent you or hold that against you, no matter how hard things were between us at the time.”

Bellamy’s caught halfway between a smile and a sob, and Octavia looks away, giving him a second. 

“What’re they like?”

“They’re really nice. Hang on, I have pictures,” he rushes up the stairs to find the envelope, dumping the contents out in Octavia’s lap. “This is my dad,” he points. 

Octavia’s bright eyes give way to tears, and she sniffles, “Oh, Bell, you look so much like him.” 

“I’m going to hell. Making a pregnant woman cry the night before her wedding,” he starts to take the pictures back, but she shakes him off. 

“No, I want to see. Are there more of him?”

Of course there are, and Clarke has tied all the photos of his father up with ribbons to keep them separate. On top is his favorite picture, Rosa holding a fat Daniel on her hip.  
“This is my Aunt Rosa. There’s seven aunts and uncles, and then about a million cousins. I can’t keep them straight, other than John Mark, because he’s the one who always helps the others call. He sends a lot of emails, and he’s the one who sent these pictures.” 

Octavia’s still looking at pictures of Daniel. “What’s his name?” she asks finally, picking up a shot of Daniel with Lola, Daniel’s arm slung casually around Lola’s neck. 

“Daniel. Daniel Valencia.” 

“You’re not going to change your name, are you?” Octavia looks predisposed to be hurt by the wrong answer, but Bellamy shakes his head quickly. 

“No. We’re Blakes, me and you, O. I could never be something different.”

“I already told Lincoln that I don’t want to change my name. He didn’t mind, though.”

Lincoln’s easygoing. Bellamy can’t imagine him objecting to much. “I thought you’d be so mad at me,” Bellamy admits. 

“As much as I want to find out about my dad--I couldn’t begrudge you finding out about yours. And Bell--” she shifts, “I’m sorry he’s gone.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “He didn’t want to know me. I mean, he had my contact information for years and never reached out. They haven’t said but I think he forbade the family to reach out, too. I’m not glad he died, but it’s...comforting?..to know that they always wanted to have me as part of their family.”

“I’m really happy for you,” Octavia looks soft and sympathetic. “Like, honestly. You could have told me when it all started.” 

“I didn’t want you to be upset. Or jealous, or think that i was finding a new family because I wanted to leave you behind.”

“Maybe I would have felt that way a year ago. But I don’t feel that way now. We’re changing, Bell, me and you. Growing up. And it might be little by little and we might still fight sometimes but I love you and I want you to be happy.” Octavia glances towards the backyard. “Clarke’s making you happy, and this family, these pictures--they’re making you happy, right?” Her eyes are all over his face, searching. 

“I wish I’d known my dad,” and Bellamy can’t help but sound a little miserable. “And that’s selfish, when there are so many other people involved, but I just wish I had…” 

“You know what I think about all the time?” Octavia rubs her stomach again. “I think about how little we actually knew Mom. I mean, she was there sometimes, but she was always so gone in her mind. She never said she loved us, she never did the mom stuff, you know? Took care of us when we were sick or helped us with our homework. This whole time I’ve been pregnant, I’ve been planning this wedding, all I’ve wanted is a real mom. Not our mom, some other mom, who would care about wedding cake tastings and baby showers.”

This Bellamy can understand. He puts his arms around his sister, pulls her close. 

“I love you,” he tells her, “I love you, and I’ll always be here, from now on. So if you need help with a baby shower, you let me know.”

Octavia lets out a full throated laugh. “I think Clarke and I can handle the baby shower. No need for assistance from a clueless big brother.” 

Lincoln and Clarke stumble through the back door, Clarke with bright pink cheeks, flower crown having been shed somewhere, and Lincoln with a grin Bellamy’s never seen before. 

“The bride needs her beauty sleep!” Clarke’s barefoot and giggly. “I’ve called an Uber and I expect to see you bright eyed and bushy tailed in the morning, Octavia.”

“I’ve never been bright eyed and bushy tailed in my entire life,” Octavia grumbles as Bellamy offers a hand to help her out of the plush, comfortable couch. 

The cleanup crew and the furniture rental people spill in. Clarke assures Octavia that the presents will make their way to Octavia’s house soon, since there’s no way on earth they’ll fit in the Uber. The caterers discuss plans for leftovers with Clarke intensely. It starts to feel like all Bellamy’s ever wanted in life is to go upstairs, get out of his clothes, and crawl under the covers he so reluctantly left this morning. 

When Clarke finally shuts the door behind the last of workers, Bellamy’s sitting on the steps with his tie undone, chin propped up on one fist. Clarke sweeps her eyes over him, looking concerned, but he finds a smile for her, standing up and offering a hand. 

“I told Octavia,” he says, in the privacy of the bedroom. 

Clarke’s looking over her bridesmaid dress, a critical eye trying to find stray wrinkles. She turns sharply, mouth in a round O. “What did she say? 

A smile that straddles the line between happy and heartbroken plays across his lips. He’s nothing more than a violin today. Someone’s pulling the bow across his strings and he is only the instrument, with no control over the music he’s making. 

“She was happy for me,” he pulls in a deep breath. “She was happy for me, yeah.”

Clarke abandons the dress with no care for its chiffon layers, to sit beside him on the bed. 

“Then why do you seem like she kicked you in the shin and ran away?” She’s got her hand resting on his shoulder, brushing her fingers along the base of his neck. 

“I’m not--we just talked about a bunch of stuff and it made me wish that I could--” he swallows painfully, trying to look at the charcoal sketch Clarke has hanging over her lamp, trying to look at anything other than her concerned face. “It made me wish I could ask for my dad’s advice about something.”

Clarke’s nodding, and he’s ashamed of himself; she knows what he’s going through, she lost her father, too. He leans into her, kisses her jaw, her neck. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, voice getting lost in her skin, “I’m sorry everything’s about me, lately.”

“Everything’s been about you since we met,” she says, “you’re crazy if you think I’ve been able to think about anything else.” 

_I hope you’re not too afraid to let her know that you want the next step, whatever that may be._

Bellamy can’t ask his father for advice, so he’ll have to do what he thinks is best. 

“Hang tight,” he swings Clarke’s legs aside gently. “Two seconds.”

He can hear her counting loudly as he runs downstairs to grab a box out of the drawer in the quest bedroom. When he enters the room again she yells, “Thirty!” and he shows her the box almost just to shut her up. 

It works: she is immediately silent, puzzled, lifts her eyes to his with a question mark in them. Finally she huffs, “I told you not to buy me expensive jewelry, Bellamy.”

“It’s not--I mean, I didn’t buy it. John Mark sent it to me. He said my Lola wanted me to have it, to give it to my pretty blonde girlfriend.”

“Bellamy--”

He hastens to add, “it’s not an engagement ring.”

She lifts her eyebrows, and her body language is clear: _go ahead then, open it, show me what’s inside._ He sits next to her on the bed again, and tries not to use too much fanfare when he flips the lid of the box. 

_Family heirloom_ , John Mark had said, _we all have several, this one is for you._

_It’ll look beautiful with Clarke’s hair_. Aunt Rosa had added. _Lola wants lots of pictures of her wearing it._

It might not be an engagement ring but it is indeed a ring, a perfect cream pearl set on a small, delicate band, and he can’t read Clarke’s expression as her eyes flit from the ring to him, and back again. Finally: “Am I to understand that you’re gifting me a family heirloom?”

“Well, according to John Mark, Aunt Rosa, and Lola--Yeah.”

“That’s--oh, Bellamy, I can’t accept this…” 

“Yeah, you can. They gave it to me specifically for you, to mark something special in our relationship. And I think the fact that I never sleep at my own place anymore is something special, right? Because I was laying in bed this morning trying to figure out if you have enough closet space for my clothes is and you’d said--”

“Of course I do!” and now she’s excited, and not over the ring, “of course I have room. If I have to throw away half my couture shoes, I’ll do it, to make room for you.” 

“Okay,” Bellamy pulls the ring from the box, slides it over the ring finger on her right hand. “Okay, so we’re moving on to the next step, right?” 

“You didn’t need a ring to convince me,” Clarke kisses him, long, deep, happy, and then bounces up to attend to her dress again. “Well. Maybe you needed to convince me about the shoes, but otherwise, I was pretty set on asking you to move in...Paps are going to love the ring, though, I should call Josie.”

“Do we have to?” 

He knows the answer before Clarke can even turn with a reproachful look. 

“Nothing’s changed when it comes to the press. We still have to be interesting and relevant, whether our relationship is bullshit or the real thing. Especially with Cartier, especially while our movie is up in the air.”

Bellamy’s been switching between grateful and irritated that for all the auditions, the movie he and Clarke were so sure they’d get is “on pause” according to Kane. It’s given him time to heal, and Clarke time to help Octavia with the wedding, but he feels like he’s just hanging, waiting for yes or no. 

There’s just something about leveraging a real relationship for media attention that makes him feel a little dirty. Clarke doesn’t seem bothered though, and when she thinks he’s not watching she grins into the full length mirror, judging the look of her new ring against her skin.

If her smile is anything to go by, it’s beautiful, it’s perfect. 

He never expected anything different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title Taylor Swift/Cardigan
> 
> I'm sorry but the visual picture of Bellamy half-yelling IT'S NOT AN ENGAGEMENT RING while Clarke stares at him has been cracking me up. 
> 
> Octavia's starting to realize/admit that her mom was crappy and Bellamy tried to do his best for her, and I love that. This aspect of the storyline hits so close to home for me I actually hurt my own feelings with it on multiple occasions.
> 
> Hope y'all are surviving February. It's almost Spring, you can do it! 
> 
> Love your comments more than cookies fresh from the oven.
> 
> Next time: Octavia's wedding! Cartier campaign! We're full-throttle headed for the end!


	25. We Might Make Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone cries at Octavia's wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild smut in this chapter!

Bellamy was sure he wouldn’t cry.

He loves his sister, of course, and he’s happy that she’s happy, but Bellamy’s still not 100% sold on Lincoln. Clarke keeps insisting that Lincoln is great, that he just needs to give Lincoln a chance--but Bellamy’s naturally suspicious nature is holding out. Clarke liking Lincoln just isn’t strong enough evidence. Clarke is an astute businesswoman but she’s sympathetic, compassionate, she would forgive Lincoln of anything, past, present, future. 

Yet, when Bellamy’s standing next to Lincoln at the end of the aisle, and Octavia comes walking out in her lace dress, tears immediately spring to his eyes. 

He doesn’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed or to rein in his emotions. She looks gorgeous, she looks adult. She doesn’t look like his baby sister, begging for a motorcycle, or even like the girl sobbing on the bathroom floor the night she realized she was pregnant. No, Octavia looks like a grown woman, luminous in her wedding gown, headed with purpose towards the man of her dreams. 

Letting her go, trusting her instincts, is the hardest thing Bellamy’s ever done, and it plays out right there in the grass as he stands between Nyko and Lincoln, fumbling with the box that holds the wedding bands. 

When he glances to the officiant’s left and sees Clarke discreetly dabbing at a tear before it can ruin her makeup, he falls in love with her all over again. 

Clarke left the house in a hurry this morning, her freshly steamed dress in one hand, throwing an “I love you,” over her shoulder. She’s now a vision of bridesmaid-ly beauty, her hair swept up in the crowned braid she wore to the Oscars, her makeup natural but eyelashes long and dark. 

He’s going to dance with her later, and she’ll be the most beautiful woman in the room. 

Well, aside from Octavia, of course. 

Bellamy doesn’t hear the I-dos until Nyko elbows him, the crowd tittering. He catches Jasper’s goofy grin in the third row. Bellamy can’t remember the last time he saw the other man in a suit or even dressy clothes, maybe prom their senior year, and even that would have been pictures sent by Harper. 

_We miss you_ , the pictures said, _wish you’d been here_.

He glances at Harper, who’s crying a lot more obviously than Clarke. She’s known Octavia her entire life, and her position as Maid-of-Honor was always secure. After all, who would want the scowling Anya standing next to them on their wedding day? And the McIntyres and the Blakes go back to their kids attending third grade together. To extra baloney sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies, to Harper babysitting tiny, troublesome Octavia while Bellamy worked at the truck depot and his mother got high with inappropriate men. 

Harper kept Bellamy’s life stitched together before he sent Octavia to boarding school, and the half-helping of resentment he felt about that ebbs away as he watches tears fill her velvet eyes. 

Harper didn’t deserve the arm’s-length treatment he gave her for so long, and things have changed over the past six months, but right now he’s dying to fold her into a hug and list all the things he regrets.

Maybe later, after some wine and dancing, but right now he needs to listen to his sister argue about whether or not she’ll be practicing the “obey” part of her wedding vows. It’s so perfectly Octavia that he can’t help but laugh, and the crowd follows.

When it’s over, and he’s strolling back down the aisle with Clarke’s arm in his, he feels inexplicably relieved even though he’s done next to nothing. 

He’ll still have to step in for the father-daughter dance, but that much he’ll survive. He’s danced with Clarke at every event they’ve gone to since Wells Jaha’s birthday, and he’s more comfortable than ever with his waltzing skills. 

God, he hopes Octavia hasn’t chosen something schmaltzy and typical to dance to, no Butterfly Kisses or whatever ridiculous father/daughter bullshit is out there. Just something normal, something innocent.

When she offers her hand for their dance, she hums the words to _Stand by Me_ as he twirls her, and he thinks there’s probably nothing wrong with schmaltzy, nothing at all. 

Clarke is sweet and warm, and acquiesces to a dance with a glass of champagne in her hand. He wraps his arms around her waist, feeling sentimental and lucky, watching Harper and Monty sway together, affectionate and slow. 

His whole life he would’ve killed to be half as in love, and now that he has Clarke it’s starting to take his breath away. He wonders if Monty feels the same way sometimes, if the very presence of Harper continually brings a little shock to his heart, makes him want to bend over and catch his breath. 

Instead he holds her closer, and she’s singing quietly under her breath, fond and low, 

_If heaven and hell decide/that they both are satisfied  
Illuminate the nos on their vacancy signs  
If there’s no one beside you when your soul embarks  
Then I’ll follow you into the dark_

He kisses her lips; she tastes like champagne and wedding cake. 

He wishes he could savor her forever, but every good thing comes to an end. 

Bellamy wakes up with a killer hangover. Clarke managed to get out of her dress and shoes, but there’s mascara under her eyes, the crown braid escaping, strands fuzzing out around her face. Her hand is under her cheek, and when he moves she jerks awake. 

“Oh, god,” she mumbles. “Bellamy...I need some aspirin, please? Pretty pretty please.”

Bellamy wants to laugh, bites his lip. Laughing at someone else’s hangover brings ten hangovers down on you. Everyone knows that. 

He stumbles into the bathroom, rifling through the cabinet, grasping at the bottle of aspirin. 

“Found it!” he exclaims triumphantly, and Clarke moans, 

“Don’t yell, for Christ’s sake.”

She had twice as much champagne than Bellamy did, went glass for glass with the notorious drunkard Jasper. Bellamy can’t believe she even woke up this morning. He threw her over his shoulder and hauled her to the car like a caveman, fastening her seatbelt while she complained.

Now he presents her with a bottle of water and three pills, murmuring sympathy as she gags at the thought of trying to swallow them down. “Why’d you let me drink so much?” she whines. “Why didn’t you protect me from Jasper?” 

“You know perfectly well that Jasper can out-drink nearly anyone. You had the moonshine party at your house!”

“I don’t remember a damn thing about that night, Bellamy!” She pushes a pillow over her head. “Please tell me I didn’t act like an ass at the wedding.”

Bellamy sits gently next to her, slides bobby pins out of her hair. “No. I mean, only a little bit, towards the end. But Jasper, Monty, and even Harper--they were all acting the same way.”

Pulling the last bobby pin out, he tangles his fingers in her curls, looking for more. 

“My head hurts,” she mumbles into the pillow. “I’m never going to forgive you for letting me get so drunk.”

“You’re an adult, last time I checked,” he huffs, flopping back down gracelessly. ‘

“Yeah but you’re my adult, you’re supposed to look out for me.”

The pearl ring is sitting on the nightstand, carefully tucked into its box, and he remembers her slurring, “pearls are delicate, gotta take care of ‘em.”

If Harper’s wide eyes when she got a good look at the ring last night were an indicator of how the press will react when pictures are public, and Bellamy’s not ready, but he has six texts from Octavia:

**OB: I know it’s the wrong hand, but is there something you wanna tell me?**

As usual she’s snatched screenshots, and there’s one of Clarke dancing, her hands in the air and head thrown back, the zoom perfect, showing her smile, the ring, her hips mere inches from Jasper’s.

Bellamy puffs out air from cheeks blown up, replies:

**BB: You told me to take the next step. We’re not engaged, but we’re moving in together. Ring’s from my Lola. It’s just, you know...a ring.**

**OB: Just a ring. Got it.**

A picture of her skeptical eyebrows, engagement diamond held close to her face. 

**OB: Just a reminder of what a real engagement ring looks like.**

**OB: And you wear it on the left hand, reminder to Clarke.**

**BB: Going back to sleep, O. Had a little too much fun last night. Safe travels.**

Octavia and Lincoln are driving to Big Bear to stay in a friend’s cabin. Bellamy feels a little bad for Octavia--the things she would normally want to do, skiing, golfing--aren’t exactly allowed at this point in her pregnancy, but she’s excited to go fishing and luxuriate in the spa. 

Bellamy wishes Lincoln luck and patience--Octavia’s never been good at waiting to catch something, usually gets impatient on the dock and cracks a beer. 

No beer to rescue her this time, Bellamy hopes his sister can try to be zen. 

Clarke is breathing deeply next to him, arm thrown over her eyes, as he scans the screenshots Octavia sent. 

_**A Nontraditional Engagement Ring?**_ One headline questions, with the article asking if maybe Clarke’s wearing it on her right hand so as not to take attention away from her new sister-in-law.

A last text from Octavia:

**OB: Don’t be too fucking cerebral about this, Bell.**

Bellamy slams the phone down, exhausted, and cuddles next to Clarke. She's so close, arm and leg pulling him tight, face buried in his neck. 

He thought she was asleep but she sighs into his throat and says, “did I do karaoke?”

The laugh he bellows is louder than he intended.”Yeah, and I have it on my phone.”

She curls up smaller, pushes against him more deeply. “Was it at least Fleetwood Mac?”

“It was The Chain. Could’ve been way worse.”

“Bellamy?” He loves the way her breath tickles him, the way her lips brush against his skin.

“Yeah?”

“You feeling okay? Last night was a little wild, and Octavia…”

He turns over on his side to crush her in a hug. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. They seem really happy together and she was radiant. That’s more than I can ask for, I think.”

“Always worry about you,” she mumbles from within the pillow. “It’s my job lately.”

Bellamy slides his hand under her shirt (his shirt) and rubs her back. Even though she’s not looking at him he can see a smile form on the corners of her mouth, especially as he slides his hands towards her ribs and her hips. 

Clarke slips off the bed to brush her teeth, leaving her side a rumpled mess. In moments she’s back, disheveled, sexy, careless as she crawls over him.

Bellamy loves her toothpaste, it’s cinnamon flavored, and reminds him of drinking Fireball and kissing girls in high school, so when Clarke kisses him deeply, intensely, it’s a mix of nostalgia and romance and she rises to meet him--he wastes no time, hooks his fingers in her panties and pulls them off. She arches an eyebrow at him and he says, between nibbling on her shoulderblade: “I heard sex is great for headaches.”

“Did you?” Her legs are bent at the knee and spread, her breath coming in quick pants.

Bellamy drags a light finger down her clit, watches her squirm just for a second. 

“Bellamy,” her voice like it’s coming from another woman entirely, “Bellamy, don’t play with me.”

“Oh, you’re not interested?” he asks innocently, pulling his body back from her, one finger still caressing her, sliding in and out. 

“I don’t want to play,” she breathes. “I want you inside me. I love you inside me.” She struggles to push his boxers down but Bellamy pins her wrists over her head. He kisses his way down her elbow, lifts her shirt to expose her breasts and her hipbones, everything cream-colored and perfect. 

Clarke is squirming as he places his mouth on her nipple, little _ah-ah-ahs_ escaping and she raises off of the bed to meet him--some kind of fire overtaking her, she’s pulling his ass towards her. “Please, Bellamy, all of you.”

They’ve had sex before--good sex, bad sex, even just in-between sex, sex that wasn’t important, meant nothing. But this damn time--Clarke under him begging to be penetrated--it feels special, feels different. 

He’s always entered her carefully, but this time he gives a nearly-brutal thrust and she gasps, “oh, God,” hoarsely. Then: “Look at me, Bellamy, look at me.” Her eyes are dreamy, clouded. 

When she lets go around him he can feel the tremble, and it’s only a moment before he shudders, dropping to bury his face in her shoulder. 

“How do you do that?” He asks shakily. “How do you make me feel this way?”

“Same question back atcha,” Clarke whispers, tightening her arms around his back. 

Bellamy tries to sound normal but his voice comes out harsh. “You wreck me, Princess. You wreck me every damn time.”

************************************

The Cartier shoot takes place in a warehouse, which Bellamy wasn’t expecting. There are racks of clothes, a thousand cameras and lights, carefully boxed and secured jewelry...chairs for hair and makeup are strewn about and it generally reminds him of behind-the-scenes at a movie. Instead of trailers things are thrown haphazardly everywhere. Clarke was asked to come early and is perched in a chair with her chin up while a makeup artist talks ninety to nothing, and Bellamy says hello, skims an air kiss an inch from her cheek. 

“I’ve been informed that we’re doing Hades last,” she tells him, “because it’s going to destroy my hair."

Bellamy touches a curl, “I forbid it.”

The makeup artist snorts and a woman with a coat thrown over her arm says, “no time for lovebirds today,” as she sweeps him away. Clarke gives him huge, desperate eyes but he’s already being stripped and dressed again, a gorgeous watch and an assortment of rings, and a hairstylist clucks over his hair.

No surprise there, his hair’s been getting wilder and wilder by the day and she finally says, “I hope you can forgive me for this, but I’m going to cut your hair.”

Bellamy finds that he cares very little about the haircut as he watches Clarke, mostly naked aside from her leather moto jacket, sit on a stool and try for a practiced grin. Exactly what she didn’t want to do, but when he catches her eye he knows exactly why she agreed to this whole damn campaign. 

_I look out for your career like I look out for my own_ , she’d said, and here is the truth, bare between them: she would do anything for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Delicate/Damien Rice
> 
> For those who've been waiting it's only the beginning of the Cartier campaign!
> 
> Clarke KNOWING that she did karaoke but being relieved that it was Fleetwood Mac...this girl, I swear. 
> 
> (And you know I had to throw some Fleetwood Mac in there. Imagine me as your wine-drunk aunt, vibing to the Rumours album.)
> 
> We've got some Raven content coming up, as well as the fruit of Bellarke's auditions! 
> 
> I love your comments more than my Mulder and Scully Funko Pops.


	26. Choose Your Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things spiral out of control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's getting serious.

The photographer seems a bit taken with Clarke. And Bellamy can’t blame him, really, even though his favorite version of Clarke is not this one, makeup-ed and hairsprayed to the ends of the earth, he prefers the rumpled, sleepy Clarke wearing one of his tee shirts and bare-faced. He prefers the Clarke who tiptoes around her bedroom, trying not to wake him, and the Clarke who reads funny snippets from her books out loud to him. (Sometimes, when she’s devouring PG Wodehouse, she reads them in a British accent, which is his favorite thing of all.)

So this Clarke, while gorgeous and engaging and dripping with jewelry, doesn’t really compare. 

_Anyone can be pretty_ , she’d said to him once, and he’d thought his response had been enough to show her she was more than that. But he barely knew her back then, and now he realizes that it’s true, anyone can be pretty, but only Clarke can be the kind of beautiful he’s needed his entire life. 

When she looks back over her shoulder at him and flashes him a real smile, the kind the photographer’s been trying to pull out of her for an hour, the camera clicks a thousand times, captures her fingers and wrists covered in rings and bracelets, her perfect curls, and the dimple she gets in her cheek when she’s happy to see him. 

“C’mere, boyfriend,” the photographer says, “C’mere and stand right behind me.”

Boyfriend. Boyfriend seems so belittling, seems like it doesn’t really encompass what he and Clarke have, but he does as he’s told. 

“Alright, talk to her. Make her smile like that again.” 

Clarke’s expression is wary, eyes darting between the photographer and Bellamy. “He’s not a comedian,” she objects, “he can’t be funny on command.” 

“I talked to Raven today,” Bellamy begins, standing exactly where he was pointed. “She has this crazy brace on, and she’s trying to decide if she’ll add hand controls to her bike, or if she’ll figure out some way to ride it with the brace… I told her maybe she shouldn’t be out there trying to break her other leg--” and here a smile flits across Clarke’s face, like she knows exactly how that suggestion went over-- “but she wasn’t having any of it. She told me if I kept lecturing her the first thing she’ll do when my niece is born is to gift Octavia with that motorcycle she’s been begging for.”

Now Clarke really does giggle, leaning forward a little, fisting the lapels of her jacket in both hands, the most perfect, open-mouthed laugh ever to be captured on film. 

“Where were you an hour ago?” The photographer mutters grumpily and Bellamy shrugs. 

“Getting a haircut.” 

Clarke moves uncomfortably on her stool, smile fallen, and she says, “Maybe if we could listen to something else?”

Pop-techno-dance music is playing, all beats, no lyrics, and it’s annoying, not the sort of thing to relax an antsy subject. 

“We can listen to anything you want, Clarke,” a harried assistant rushes over, “do you have a playlist on your phone, maybe?”

Clarke nods, grabs her phone, pulls up something and the assistant plugs it in to the speakers. 

Bellamy can’t help but snicker when Fleetwood Mac fills the giant space. 

The photographer turns, murmurs quietly, “She’s in her head. Maybe you can help?”

Bellamy nods, strides across the open space to turn Clarke’s chin up with one finger. “What’s going on?” 

She shakes her head miserably: “I just hate this. When’s it going to be your turn to sit here like an object?” 

“An expensive object,” he corrects, and he can’t kiss her because of all the makeup, but it’s hard to resist her pursed, pouting lips. “The faster you smile and play nice, the faster this is over. And I don’t know about you, but I’m excited about that whole Hades getup, so let’s finish up here so we can play dress up.”

It isn’t long before Bellamy is the one feeling like an expensive object, in white pants and not much more, watching as they paint black temporary dye on the bottom of Clarke’s hair and dark eyeshadow on her lids. The dress she’s to wear is a tulle confection with a neckline that goes all the way down to her sternum. She looks as if she’s stepping out of darkness and it’s clinging to her like fog. 

_Snap, snap, snap_ , as Bellamy offers his Hades an apple, and he hears everyone saying, “Good, good, better together,” and Bellamy knew that, and from the look on Clarke’s face she knew it, too. 

“You’re really a lovely couple,” the makeup artist brushes his nose, “sorry, you’re shiny. I wasn’t sure about this whole thing, couples come with baggage and cause problems, but you’re both really kind and super supportive of each other. You don’t know how rare that is.” 

“Clarke’s special,” Bellamy replies, not taking his eyes off the woman in question. She’s singing along with ‘Dreams’ as they fluff her skirt for the twentieth time and ask them to stand again, offer the apple again. 

Clarke sighs, and under her breath she tells Bellamy, “I want to go home.” 

“Soon.”

He can’t take his eyes off her, wants to lay her down and kiss all the way down the bare skin of her chest, even finds the strange dye job of her hair alluring. She’s a different Clarke, dark and enchanting, and he could look at her all day. 

Everyone’s looking at him, an assistant places a hand on his arm and reminds him, “it’s time for places. Stand here again, and hold the apple like this…”

“Sorry, I zoned out.” Bellamy’s just a little bit tired of holding the damn apple. 

“We’re almost done, try to stay with me.”

Bellamy nods like there aren’t a thousand things on his mind, like he’s not thinking about Clarke, and like he doesn’t have something big to discuss with her. 

There is something angelic about Clarke normally, something pure, even as she lays underneath him in bed. But there is a beauty to darkening her, to making her eyes inky and smutty. Bellamy owns the angel and now he wants the devil, and when the photographer says they’re done Bellamy takes her in his arms and kisses her like they’ve been drowning, like only this intimacy will save them. 

Clarke blushes, insists that she needs to get out of her dress and the matte black crown, and Bellamy says: “How do you always end up in a crown, Princess?”

When she laughs the assistant takes pictures of her, hastily adding that she’ll tag them in her instagram posts. “It’s just that you look so cute. Like, all of your black, like a mourner, but then you’re giggling. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,” Clarke glances at Bellamy, “No, it’s fine.”

_I don’t want to play this game anymore_ , Bellamy thinks. _I don’t want to be this person. It’s real and I don’t want to leverage it for attention._

But Clarke is studying him, eyebrows furrowed. “We agreed,” she reminds him quietly. “We agreed on a year, and it’s only been seven months. At the end we can become super private or whatever you want, but right now--”

“Right now, the paps get what they want.” Bellamy rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t make things difficult, Bellamy.” Clarke turns her back on him, lets someone unzip her dress. 

When she says that, and she does say it often enough that he hates it, every cell in his body screams out that he wants to make things difficult, truly difficult, but instead he shrugs his shoulders and drops the white pants to put on his jeans. Being naked in front of crew is nothing new to either of them, but in the open, cold warehouse he can see Clarke folding in on herself as she tries to get dressed in a hurry. She pulls on a lacy bralette in a flash, an oversized v-neck sweater that slides off her shoulders next, and then ripped boyfriend ankle jeans. Her slip-on Vans are patterned with tiny pink flowers and she scrubs at her face with makeup wipes, trying to clean the dark eyeshadow up. It doesn’t fit her persona, Bellamy knows that, but he wishes she’d kept it, in an idle sort of way. There’s nothing to be done about the black dye at the ends of her hair until she can take a shower, and she smiles at him in a lopsided way: “People are going to think I did this on purpose. I can just see the headlines: Clarke Griffin goes goth. Is Bellamy Blake breaking her heart?”

Bellamy’s dressed now, in the fisherman’s sweater with stylized holes near the neck--Clarke’s favorite to steal and wear--and he smiles back: “Am I?” 

She slides her arms around his neck, stands on tiptoe: “No, it’s the exact opposite,” and kisses him with a softness that melts his heart. “But it’s probably a little more interesting for the press if they think so,” and that sends his walls back up.

Clarke shakes every hand, and has a hug for the photographer and the assistant who helped change the music. “Thank you,” she repeats over and over, “I appreciate you so much.”

Bellamy feels fake doing such things, encompasses everyone with one smile and a “Thanks, guys, that was great.” 

If everyone didn’t hear, well, that’s too bad. He’s worn out and cranky, and Clarke’s _don’t make things difficult_ has sent him in a spiral of irritation. When she reaches for his hand as they head out the door, he sticks it in his pocket, ignoring her hurt look. 

Josie’s in the parking lot, runs toward them with a smile, Gabriel trailing behind. “Cool hair!” she hollers at Clarke. “Can I see the ring?” 

Clarke holds out her hand and Bellamy has a flashback to Octavia showing everyone her ring after she got engaged, that peculiar way women bend their wrists and spread their fingers. Clarke is more proud of this ring than she would have been if he’d given her a diamond, and that makes it hard to be angry at her. The pearl is almost too big for her small hands, and it’s something to be jealous of, if Josie’s face is anything to go by. 

“Hey,” Gabriel says breathlessly, “just uh, go by Clarke’s car and look like you’re gonna kiss her. And Clarke, put your right hand on Bellamy’s arm, so we can get a good zoom on the ring.”

Bellamy had no idea that Josie and Gabriel were going to be here, but better them than other random paparazzi. So they lean against Clarke’s car, and he cradles her face in both hands. She places her hands carefully on his biceps and smiles up at him. Gabriel starts snapping shots as they lean in slowly for a kiss, and when they’re done and Bellamy leans his forehead against Clarke’s, Gabriel is still going on and on. 

“Okay,” Bellamy growls, “I’m done, stop.”

“Just a few more, you guys look really great all casual and messy…”

“No, didn’t you hear me? I’m finished!” Bellamy pushes away from Clarke, stalks towards Gabriel. “We’ve given you plenty of access over the past few months, and I’m getting a little tired of acquiescing to your fucking...stage directions. So go post those pictures on your stupid little--”

“Bellamy!” Clarke’s voice is sharp, angry, horrified. “Don’t talk to my friends like that!”

“They’re not friends. They’re fucking parasites.”

Josie draws back, gives Clarke tearful eyes. 

“Josie, that’s not how I feel at all,” Clarke protests, reaching for her. “I don’t--I’d never--say something like that.”

Josie nods, turns to Gabriel, tries to steady her voice: “Bellamy’s just in a bad mood. You got a lot of good pictures. Let’s go home.”

Clarke whirls on Bellamy, eyes narrowed and furious: “What the fuck is wrong with you, Bellamy?! Josie’s been nothing but good to us and you say shit like that to her? She was in my life long before you were and she has been so loyal to me! She never says anything bad about me, she shows up every time I ask her to! She’s half the damn reason this whole thing has gone over so well.”

“Maybe I don’t WANT it to go well anymore! Maybe I’m sick of it! We have something real and we’re just flashing it out there for everyone to see, for everyone to judge. I don’t want to leverage my kisses and my family heirlooms for attention, Clarke! I don’t want to be Bellarke anymore--I just want to be us!”

“For the fiftieth time, we agreed on this. We agreed on a year. When the year is up we can suddenly become reclusive, we can suddenly be that private couple, but right now we have an obligation to each other and our careers to be front and center on the gossip pages. Are you telling me that you want to go back on your word? Because if we’re not Bellarke I’m not sure that we’ll get this musical--I’m not sure we’ll get anything. Raven says we’re more interesting together than we are apart and I think the last seven months have proven she’s right!”

They’re staring at each other, eyes blown wide, each so angry they can’t breathe, and Bellamy can barely stop his chest from heaving in anger. “I don’t want to be Bellarke anymore, Clarke. And if that includes going back on my word...then I’m going back on my word. I can’t stand all this posturing and faking. I don’t want to kiss you for pictures. I just want to kiss you because I love you. And I don’t want you waving that ring around to get attention. I want you wearing it because it’s special, because I gave it to you, because I love you.”

“I am wearing it for those reasons,” she whispers. “But if you think I’m not…” she pulls it off, places it in his palm. “Maybe you should sleep at your place tonight.”

“Clarke--” Half his stuff is at her house; he was moving in at a leisurely pace. “Please, I don’t want--”

“You lied to me. You’re letting me down. And you know, Kane said you would but I defended you, I bulldozed right over him…”

“I’m sorry, this isn’t what I meant, what I want…”

“Thing is, Bellamy, I don’t know just a ton about love. Lexa was cold, Finn was abusive. But I’m fairly sure that people who love each other don’t lie, don’t go back on promises. And that’s what our agreement was, a promise.”

Her eyes are full of tears, her face all anger and hurt. “I believed in you, Bellamy. When Kane came up with this whole ridiculous plan, he warned me, he said he wasn’t sure at all if you could ride this out, if you could treat me kindly, if you could stay on the right path and not go out and have threesomes like you did the night before we met. When I met you, you went home and I said I believed in you. But here we are, you using our real relationship as an excuse to duck out of the one that’s for show, the one that’s the whole fucking reason this started.”

“Clarke, you’re taking this entirely the wrong way. I’m trying to say I love you too much to pretend anymore.”

“Pretend what?! All we’re doing is showing off how in love we are! No one knows we were acting before! And how long have we been in love? Ages! What makes things any different because we finally admitted it?”

“It feels dirty! It feels like it’s not about love, it’s just about promoting our careers! And I don’t care about that, anymore, Clarke! I could never be in another movie as long as I have you, and I’ve told you that before but you don’t listen--you never listen!”

“And I told you before that I still want a career! And I fucking--I fucking agreed to pose here mostly naked today to boost your career, so we can both be at the peak of our calling at a relatively young age, so we can get that stupid musical and a dozen movies after it!”

Bellamy holds the ring out to her, sitting shiny and luminous in his palm. “Why don’t you understand that you can have any career you want--but I just want to be with you? And I’m sorry if you think that me not wanting to continue with this paparazzi charade is a lie or letting you down. I don’t have control over how you feel about that. But to me, all this kissing against cars and going shopping just so people can see how pretty we look together--that’s the lie.”

Clarke shakes her head, rubs her hand across tears. “I told you the first day we met not to fall in love with me. And I thought I was wrong, that day in the hospital when I had to watch you, pale and bruised and--” she catches a sob, a little hitch. “I thought, if I lost you, it would be the biggest mistake of my entire life.”

Bellamy risks stepping closer, putting his hands on her shoulders. “That is exactly how I felt when I woke up and saw you there. Please don’t let this disagreement fuck up all the progress we’ve made.”

“I have to...I have to think about this. Sleep at your place tonight. I need some space.”

At your place. Like her place isn’t his place. 

“I wish you would just hear me out--”

“Everyone lets me down,” she whispers, “everyone lets me down and I let myself believe you were different.”

She opens the car door with her shoulders so brittle she looks like she could shatter any minute, and Bellamy says, “Please, Princess--” but she just shakes her head and slams the door behind her. 

He watches her cry over the steering wheel for what seems like forever, leaning against the car, saying her name until his throat is hoarse, finally beating his hands against the window in frustration. She doesn’t even look at him when she finally starts the engine.

Bellamy drives slowly, carefully back to the condo. He has a new Rover, replacing the one that was totaled, but he hasn’t quite gotten the hang of driving like the bat out of hell he was before the accident. He puts the ring in his glove box--doesn’t want to look at it--and still can’t figure out why Clarke is angry that he wants to move their relationship into something more intimate, into something that’s not for public consumption. 

Why isn’t it enough that he loves her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Ever Since New York/Harry Styles
> 
> Not her giving back the ring!
> 
> And what did he need to talk to her about so badly? We'll find out next chapter!
> 
> Love your comments more than Cadbury Mini Eggs.


End file.
